THE
NICOMACHEAN
ETHICS
ARISTOTLE
WILLIAMS
B
430
A5
W73
1879

dgling
FROM THE LIBRARY OF
ROBERT MARK WENLEY
PROFESSOR
1696
OF PHILOSOPHY
1929
GIFT OF HIS CHILDREN
TO THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Bickor del at sc
1938
THE NICOMACHEAN ETHICS
OF
ARISTOTLE
N
រ
3
LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
:
THE
NICOMACHEAN ETHICS
OF
ARISTOTLE
NEWLY TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
BY
ROBERT WILLIAMS, ESQ.
OF LINCOLN'S INN, BARRISTER-AT-LAW
LATE FELLOW AND LECTURER OF MERTON COLLEGE, AND SOMETIME
STUDENT OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD
THIRD EDITION
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
1879
All rights reserved
B
430
·A5
W73
1879
Nos hoc liquido affirmare possumus, minus esse obscuritatis in
Aristotele, quam optarent prolixissimi interpretes, quorum interest
ne plus sapiat juventus quam ipsi, aut ne cito ea intelligat, sine
quibus ipsi nomen philosophi et existimationem tueri non possent.
Longe alia veterum ac præcipue Græcorum mens fuit: qui cum genus
dicendi Aristotelicum recte percepissent et mentem, utrumque breviter
et sine ambitione ulla proponebant. Inter quos principem illi locum
obtinere videntur, qui fusius paulo summam illam viri divini brevita-
tem, non interrupto sermonis ordine, illustrarant: et ubi necesse esset,
quæ a minus rerum harum peritis desiderari possent, interjunxerant.
Quod jam olim in octo De physica auscultatione libros, tres De anima,
et alios nonnullos a Themistio admirabili quadam ratione factum esse,
omnes fatentur.'-HEINSIUS, Præf. in Andronici Rhodii Paraphrasin.
gt-wenley Lob
03-11-39 JA
2-21-39
DEDICATED
ΤΟ
THE REV. B. JOWETT, M.A
MASTER OF BALLIOL COLLEGE
OXFORD
•
?
1
PREFACE
ΤΟ
THE FIRST EDITION.
NOT ONLY do the Nicomachean Ethics lie almost at the
threshold of Moral Philosophy, but they have, perhaps,
more in common with modern thought than any other
among the treatises of Aristotle of equal length and im-
portance. The whole of the eighth and ninth books, and,
with them, the fourth, the last half of the third, and a con-
siderable portion of the first, may be read without any
previous knowledge of Greek Philosophy, and will be
found intelligible. The discussion of the physical basis
of certain forms of depravity apparently moral, the casu-
istical determination of the degrees of responsibility, and
the treatment of the question of education, are by no
means the only points that occur which have in the pre-
sent day a great interest of their own, and on which it is
as well to hear what any great thinker has advanced.
And, lastly, the Nicomachean Ethics are of especial
value as being a brief and methodical system of Moral
Philosophy, instead of a desultory and unconnected dis-
cussion of some one question in a great subject. Indeed
:
viii
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
from this point of view, there is no work extant at once
of equal brevity and worth.
Now that the thoughtful study of Greek Philosophy
is beginning to take its proper place, a translation of
the Nicomachean Ethics, intended not so much to aid the
tyro in grappling with the difficulties of the Greek text, as
to reproduce the original in an intelligible and connected
form for the benefit of the general reader, needs no
apology, except on the especial ground of its own de-
merits. In this respect I hope I have done my best to
avoid all serious errors. But a translation is always a
wearisome task, and one that requires most minute atten-
tion to render it as little as possible obnoxious to those
differences of opinion which must always exist as to the
exact meaning of any given combination of words in a
dead language. I shall be more than content if I have
done a little to promote that general acquaintance with
Greek Philosophy for which so much is already due to
the labours of others.
My best thanks are due to the accomplished scholar-
ship and kind care of R. Dear, Esq., of Merton College
—who, in a final revision of the proofs, has made several
important suggestions, of which I have most gladly
availed myself.
The text followed is that of Bekker, as given in the
small Oxford Edition of 1867, published by Messrs.
Parker. The paging of this edition has, to facilitate
reference, been given in the margin, and all deviations
from the text have been noticed at the foot of the page.
OXFORD: June 30, 1869.
,
PREFACE
ΤΟ
THE SECOND EDITION.
4
IN THIS EDITION the text has been carefully gone over
and some inaccuracies have been corrected. I have also,
at the suggestion of some of my old pupils, added some
short analyses of various portions of the work. These
analyses were originally drawn up by R. S. Wright, Esq.,
of Oriel College, by whose kindness they came into my
hands now more than twelve years ago. They are some-
what altered from their original shape, and Mr. Wright
is consequently not responsible for errors and misappre-
hensions of my introduction.
LONDON: July, 1876.
4
X
ANALYSES.
I.
CHART OF THE ψυχή OF MAN.
Α. τὸ θρεπτικὸν καὶ αὐξητικόν.
Β. τὸ αἰσθητικόν.
D. τὸ κατὰ τόπον κινητικόν.
Ε. τὸ διανοητικόν.
ψυχὴ = 1 C. τὸ ὀρεκτικόν.
ψυχή
τὸ ἄλογον
τὸ λόγον ἔχον
1
τὸ ἄλογον κυρίως
(A. B. D.)
τὸ λόγον ἔχον ὡς
ἐπιπειθὲς λόγῳ (C.)
τὸ λόγον ἔχον κυρίως
(E.)

τὸ λογιστικὸν
τὸ διανοητικὸν
τὸ προαιρούμενον
The ἀρεται of this μόριον are
1. νοῦς
2. επιστημη } = 3. σοφία.
The ἀρεταὶ of this μόριον are 1. τέχνη, 2.
φρόνησις, 3. Various lesser intellectual
ἀρεται such as εὐβουλία, ἀγχίνοια, εὐ
στοχία, σύνεσις, γνώμη, κ.τ.λ.
-The ἀρεται of this μόριον are the various
πρακτικαὶ οι ἠθικαὶ ἀρεταὶ properly so
called.
The ἀρεταὶ of these three μόρια are out-
side the province of Ethics.
ANALYSES.
xi
:
..
الاسلامیان و
II.
A GENERAL ANALYSIS OF THE NICOMACHEAN ETHICS.
A. There is a réλos aiρeTwταTоv, at once man's final cause, and
the realisation of his formal cause.
Proof from Optimism. De An. Inc. ii. 3; Pol. i. 2. 10.
a. Our method, as in all other Sciences and Arts, is strictly
inductive. An. Pr. i. 30. An. Post. i. 18, ii. 15.
B. This τέλος αἱρετώτατον is εὐδαιμονία.
Proof by the method of criteria. (Plat. Pol. 434 D.)
ευδαιμονία is, (1) τέλειον, (2) αύταρκες, (3) πάντων αἱρετα-
τώτατον μὴ συναριθμούμενον.
α. Εὐδαιμονία is neither (1) ἡδονὴ, nor (2) τιμὴ, nor (3) ἀρετὴ,
nor (4) πλοῦτος, nor (5) ἡ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἰδέα.
C. Man's εὐδαιμονία is the full function of his ἔργον.
Proof by induction.
a. Man has an epуov. Two proofs.
D. Man's pyov, being what man alone can do, will be done in
virtue of faculties which man alone possesses.
E. Man alone has the πρακτικὸν μόριον, the combination of νοῦς
and opɛis; the TрaктIKỳ wn, the energy of this, is man's
ἔργον.
F. The ἔργον of man being ἐνέργεια πρακτικῆς (i.e. ἀνθρωπινῆς)
ψυχῆς, the εὐδαίμων will be he who fulfils this function
well (i.e. Kar' ȧperǹv ápíorny), and for a reasonably suffi-
cient length of time (i.e. ἐν βίῳ τελείῳ).
a. This our definition of evdarovla is confirmed by (1) popular
opinion, and by (2) the dogmas of philosophic schools.
β. εὐδαιμονία is ἐφ' ἡμῖν. Four proofs.
7. The contingencies of the next life do not practically affect
our conclusion.
δ. εὐδαιμονία is τῶν τιμίων.
xii
ANALYSES.
G. To resume, εὐδαιμονία = ψυχῆς ἐνέργεια κατ᾿ ἀρετὴν ἀρίστην
ἐν βίῳ τελείῳ.
To solve this equation, we must first know what is the
ἀρίστη ἀρετὴ of man's soul.
H. Man's soul is twofold, the πρακτική ψυχή, and the διανοητικὴ
ψυχή, each with an ἀρετὴ of its own.
Which then is the ἀρίστη ἀρετὴ of man ?
I. The ἀρετὴ of the πρακτικὴ ψυχὴ is a formed state, or habit,
which deliberately chooses the μέσον πρὸς ἡμᾶς, besides
being κατ' ὀρθὸν λόγον. It is, therefore, dependent upon
and lower than the ἀρετὴ of the λόγον ἔχον or διανοητική
ψυχή.
K. This leaves two questions to be answered:
(1) What is the highest ἀρετὴ οἱ τὸ λόγον ἔχον κυρίως,
and consequently of man?
(2) What is that in matters of moral ἀρετὴ which makes
our λόγος to be ὀρθὸς and makes us choose the μέσον as we
ought?
L. The λόγον ἔχον, οι διανοητικὸν μόριον, has itself two μόρια
the deliberative, or λογιστικὸν, and the speculative, or
διανοητικὸν κυρίως or θεωρητικόν.
M. Of the λογιστικὸν the highest ἀρετὴ can be proved to be
φρόνησις.
N. Of the θεωρητικὸν there are but three ἀρεταὶ, namely νοῦς,
ἐπιστήμη and σοφία, and of these three σοφία is the highest,
as being the unity of the other two.
O. Of these two ἀρεταὶ, then—φρόνησις and σοφία—which is the
higher? Σοφία is, for it is τῶν τιμιωτάτων. (Ατοπον γὰρ
εἴ τις τὴν πολιτικὴν ἢ τὴν φρόνησιν σπουδαιοτάτην οἴεται
εἶναι, εἰ μὴ τὸ ἄριστον τῶν ἐν κόσμῳ ἄνθρωπος ἔστιν.)
P. Thus, then, the two questions of (K.) are answered:—
(1) σοφία is the ἔργον, or highest ἀρετὴ of man.
ANALYSES.
xiii
(2) When we have φρόνησις, then our λόγος is ὀρθὸς
and our προαίρεσις ὀρθὴ and σπουδαία.
Q. The best pleasure accompanies the best évɛpyɛía, and the best
pleasure of man is that which accompanies his best and
highest évéρycia; or, in other words, it is the exercise of
έvépyɛia;
او
oopía that is the true pyor of man, and that yields him
the best and highest pleasure of which he is capable.
R. Verification of the conclusion that Oɛwpía, the exercise of
σopía, is man's epyov, and is therefore convertible with
εὐδαιμονία.
Twelve criteria: It is κρατίστη, συνεχεστάτη, ἡδίστη,
αὐταρκεστάτη, τελεία, ἐν σχολῇ, κατὰ τὸ θεῖον ἐν ἡμῖν,
οἰκειοτάτη, κεχωρισμένη, θεῶν βίος, ἰδιωτάτη and θεοφιλε
στάτη; and nothing but ευδαιμονία can possibly be all these.
:
Whatthise
III.
THE GENERAL THEORY OF MORAL ἀρετή.
ἀρετὴ of the λόγον ἔχον ὡς ἐπιπειθὲς λόγῳ?
A. Moral ἀρετὴ does not come διδαχῇ, nor φύσει, but ἐθισμῷ
ποίων ἐνεργείων. We become good by doing good acts:
4 illustrations. What then is a good act?
By a 'vindemiatio prima,' or rough induction, from the
analogy of gymnastic and medicine, we infer that the
'Form' of a good act is μeoórns.
a. Answer to objection against 4th illustration.
We become good by doing good acts. We are good when we do
good acts πως ἔχοντες, ί.ε. εἰδότες, προαιρούμενοι δι᾽ αὐτὰ, ἀφ᾽ ἕξεως,
and μεθ᾽ ἡδονῆς. Ch. 4.
B. But what is moral ¿pɛrý?
xiv
ANALYSES
Not being a πάθος or a δύναμις (Cat. 6.), it remains that
it is an is. But what is its differentia?
a. The onμeîov of the eis is dovǹ felt in the act. Ch. 3.
F/
It is a good is of course.
good?
What is it that makes it
There are three grand architectonic divisions of good,
a. goods of the soul, B. goods of the body, y. goods ex-
ternal; and if we consider the analogies a. of art, ß. of
medicine, y. of the Tέpas, we shall see that in each division
the 'Form' of good is μɛoorns. We have established the
result of our 'vindemiatio prima.'
Thus, then, the genus of moral aperǹ is us, its differentia
is μεσότης, its essence ἕξις προαιρετικὴ ἐν μεσότητι.
a. This μεσότης is the μεσότης πρὸς ἡμᾶς.
β. What fixes this μεσότης πρὸς ἡμᾶς ? ὀρθὸς λόγος.
γ. Who has this ὀρθός λόγος ? The φρόνιμος.
Thus then we have a complete definition of moral άpɛrý.
It is ἕξις προαιρετικὴ ἐν μεσότητι οὖσα τῇ πρὸς ἡμᾶς ὡρισμένῃ
λόγῳ καὶ ὡς ἂν ὁ φρόνιμος ὁρίσειεν.
a. póvnois remains an unknown quantity, to be determined in
book vi.
C. It only remains to confirm our definition by applying it to
a diaypapn of the most usually recognised moral virtues,
each of which we find, as we should expect, serves to
confirm our definition.
a. This διαγραφή is arranged κατὰ τὸ συζῇν. The most social
virtues come last.
B. Four practical rules for attaining the μeróns.
ANALYSES
XV
IV.
LOGIC OF THE WILL.
A. In what cases is a man not an agent at all? When Bialóμevos
or ȧyvo@v.
Definition : τὸ βίαιον is οὗ ἡ ἀρχὴ ἔξωθεν μηδὲν συμβαλλομένου τοῦ
βιασθέντος.
Αγνοια: For ἄγνοια to make a man strictly an invo-
luntary agent he must act not ȧyvov merely, but also di
άyvolav; and, even then, the further qualification is
required that the act must be ἐν μεταμελείᾳ.
a. There are four kinds of μικταὶ πράξεις.
β. A distinction must be drawn between ἄκων and οὐκ ἔκων.
γ. Τὸ ἡδὺ and τὸ καλὸν are not βίαια; four reasons.
The only kind of ayvota which makes a man åkwv is
when he is ignorant of the details and circumstances (¿v
ois kaì πɛpì à) of the action. These are :—
1. Tls, the agent.
2. Tivà (èv tívi) or Tl, the object, whether a person or thing.
3. Tivl, the instrument.
4. Пs, the manner.
5. "Eveka Tivos, the result.
6. Tl, the action itself.
Even thus the act must be έv μɛrapɛλɛíg, and involve
regret.
B. Ovμos and έπiovμía do not destroy our free will; four reasons.
C. Пpoαípeσis is the main element of action, quâ moral and
voluntary. What then is πpoaipeσis?
It is not êmiovula; four reasons.
Nor Ovuds; two reasons.
Nor βούλησις ; three reasons.
Nor dóža; two reasons.
Nor δόξα τις ; five reasons,
xvi
ANALYSES.
It is ἑκούσιον and προβεβουλευμένον. More definitely,
it is βουλευτικὴ ὄρεξις τῶν ἐφ' ἡμῖν. (Ἐκ τοῦ βουλεύσασθαι
γὰρ κρίναντες ὀρεγόμεθα κατὰ τὴν βούλευσιν.)
This being so, what is the range of βούλευσις ?
Excluded from it are :
1. Τὰ ἀίδια.
2. Τὰ ἐν κινήσει ἀεὶ δὲ κατὰ ταὐτὰ γενόμενα.
3. Τὰ ἄλλοτ᾽ ἄλλως.
4. Τὰ ἀπὸ τυχῆς.
There remain only τὰ πρακτὰ, and of these, again, we
only deliberate about τὰ ἐφ' ἡμῖν πρακτά.
D. Is βούλησις of the true end?
Dilemma.—If βούλησις is τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ, then it follows
that,
οὐκ ἐστι βουλητὸν ὁ βούλεται ὁ μὴ ὀρθῶς αἱρούμενος.
If, on the other hand, βούλησις is only τοῦ φαινομένου
ἀγαθοῦ, then
Each man is his own judge, and βουλητά πως ἂν εἴη τὰ ἐνάντια.
Solution.—'Απλῶς μὲν καὶ κατ' ἀλήθειαν βουλητὸν εἶναι
τἀγαθὸν, ἑκαστῷ δὲ τὸ φαινόμενον.
E. But, to go deeper. Can a man help his character; his being
τοιοῦτος ; his view of the τέλος ?
Dilemma.—If we are κύριοι ἕξεως, then we are also κύριοι
φαντασίας.
If we are not κύριοι ἕξεως, then virtue and vice are both
alike involuntary.
But we are κύριοι ἕξεως, for (by A. and B.) all our acts
are free that are not βίᾳ or δι' άγνοιαν, and it is out of our
acts that our ɛs grow, and by our acts that they are
determined.
F. Three proofs that our ἕξεις grow out of our acts, and that our
acts are voluntary.
1. To assume the contrary is to postulate the impossibility of
Ethics, which, er hypothesi, are possible.
2. The practice of legislators. Ων καὶ αἱ ἀρχαὶ ἐν ἡμῖν, καὶ αὐτὰ ἐφ᾿
ἡμῖν καὶ ἑκούσια. Τούτοις δ᾽ ἔοικε μαρτυρεῖσθαι καὶ ἰδίᾳ ὑφ' ἑκάστων
ANALYSES.
xvii
καὶ ὑπ' αὐτῶν τῶν νομοθετῶν· κολάζουσι γὰρ καὶ τιμωροῦνται τοὺς
δρῶντας μοχθηρὰ, ὅσοι μὴ βίᾳ ἢ δι᾽ ἄγνοιαν ἧς μὴ αὐτοὶ αἴτιοι, τοὺς δὲ
τὰ καλὰ πράττοντας τιμῶσιν, ὡς τοὺς μὲν προτρέψοντες τοὺς δὲ κωλύ-
σοντες.
3. Appeal to common sense. Τὸ μὲν οὖν ἀγνοεῖν ὅτι ἐκ τοῦ ἐνερ
γεῖν περὶ ἕκαστα αἱ ἕξεις γίνονται, κομιδῇ ἀναισθήτου. Ετι δ' ἄλογον
τὸν ἀδικοῦντα μὴ βούλεσθαι ἄδικον εἶναι ἢ τὸν ἀκολασταίνοντα ἀκό-
λαστον. Εἰ δὲ μὴ ἀγνοῶν τις πράττει ἐξ ὧν ἔσται ἄδικος, ἑκὼν ἄδικος
ἂν εἴη, οὐ μὴν ἐάν γε βούληται, ἄδικος ὢν παύσεται καὶ ἔσται δίκαιος.
V.
Φιλία.
Friendship is a grand ἀναγκαιοτάτη and καλὴ διαπασών ex-
tending throughout all nature.
There are two common mechanical or physical theories of
it, (α) ομοιότης (κολοιοί) and (β) αντίξουν (κεραμεῖς).
A. What is the object or οὗ ἕνεκα of friendship ? (Έοικε φίλησις
πάθει, φιλία ἕξει, μετὰ προαιρέσεως γάρ.)
There are three things φιλητὰ and three forms of φιλία
to correspond to them.
Φιλητὰ
Α. Τὸ ἀγαθὸν (τελεία, καθ᾽ αὑτοὺς, μονιμὴ, πολυχρονία,
κ.τ.λ.)
Β. Τὸ ἡδὺ
}
κατὰ συμβεβηκός φίλιαι
C. Το χρήσιμον | by ἐναντιότης, τοῦ μεσοῦ ἕνεκα.
Friendship, then, is an ἀντιφίλησις οὐ λανθάνουσα in
each of these; it is especially ἐν ἐνεργείᾳ.
B. What is its field ? A11 κοινωνία.
πολιτικὴ κοινωνία
πολιτική
συγγενική
ἑταιρική
Three forms; most
φιλία in democracy,
γαμική, ἀδελφική,
Accidental
φυλετική, ξενική,
συμποτικὴ, &ο.
least in a τύραννις,
πατρικὴ
where
men are
slaves.
xviii
ANALYSES.
Εταιρική, ἀδελφική, δημοκρατική, are strict φίλιαι ἐν
ισότητα; in all other kinds the φιλία is καθ' ὑπεροχήν and
the love must be αναλόγως.
In all these relations, then, there is both dikaιoovvǹ and
φιλία ; both δικαιοσυνὴ and φιλία are virtues connected
with τὸ ἴσον; both are περὶ τὰ αὐτὰ ἐν τοῖς αὐτοῖς, and co-
extensive with each κοινωνία.
How, then, do they differ?
In δίκαιοσυνὴ τὸ κατ' αξίαν is the chief point.
In φιλία, τὸ ποσόν.
So, too, the κόλαξ is not φίλος, for the essence of κολακεία
is φιλεῖσθαι, of φιλία φιλεῖν.
C. Practical notes and dπópiai.
Casuistry of the adjustment of claims.
1. Can a man have many friends ?
Not of the best kind (A.), for it is a úπeρßoλn.
2. (C.) being ẻyêλŋμatikỲ, how must the conflicting claims be
settled ? As δικαιοσυνὴ is partly ἄγραφον, partly νομιμον, so there
are two kinds of (C.), ή ηθική and ἡ νομιμή, and we must dis-
tinguish between favours and rights.
3. Τη φιλία καθ' ὑπεροχὴν, the unequal friend must be accommodat-
ing, and each pay what he can.
4. In φίλιαι ανομοίοις είδεσι (for different objects) there must of course
be τὸ ἀνάλογον, but who is to fix the value ? ὁ προέχων κατὰ τὴν
πрoalρeσ in receiving. Cf. Harper in Sicily, Protagoras, the
προαίρεσιν
Sophists.
5. (Casuistry of relative duties.) Which obligation is to take
precedence?
a. The greatest favour is to be returned first.
β. Εκάστῳ τὸ οἰκεῖον ἀπονεμητέον.
7. Each case for itself. Rules are useless.
6. When your friend alters his character is he to be kept? As
long as you can, unless the change be very great. Remember
old times.
7. What is the standard of actions to be done? Is it 'Do as to
yourself?'
a. Consider your friend's character, and act èkeívov Xápiv.
•
B. Youself' must be the self of the σTоvdaîos, and that is
νους.
vous. The self of the bad is bad, therefore they are άpíλnto,
and fy themselves-στασιάζουσιν ἐν ἑαυτοῖς
CONTENTS.
xxiii
t
BOOK VII.
Degrees of Virtue and of Vice-Problems with regard to Inconti-
nence-Partial solution of these problems-Discussion of the thesis
of Socrates, that a man cannot know what is right and do what is
wrong-Distinction between Incontinence proper and quasi-Incon-
tinence-Brutality-Incontinence of desire is worse than is Incon-
tinence of anger-Effeminacy and Endurance-Strength of character
-Prudence and Incontinence are incompatible-Various arguments
of the detractors of Pleasure-These arguments are inconclusive—
Bodily Pleasure is only bad when pursued to excess-It has not been
shown that the Chief Good is not identical with some particular
kind of Pleasure
PAGE
. 175
BOOK VIII.
Various theories concerning Friendship-The three objects of affection
are the Good, the Pleasant and the Useful-Upon each of these
three a friendship may be based-Friendships of pleasure or of
utility are accidental or imperfect-Friendships of virtue are essen-
tial, complete, perfect, and lasting-Friendship is kept alive by
intercourse-One cannot have many real friends at one and the
same time-Friendships of inequality-Connection between Justice
and Friendship-The essence of friendship is to love rather than to
be loved-The field of all Friendship is some form or other of
community-Friendship in the various forms of political commu-
nity-Friendship between relations-Settlement of disputes in
friendships of utility-Settlement of disputes in friendships of in-
equality
217
BOOK IX.
The return to be made for a kindness received must be fixed by its
value to the recipient-Rules for the settlement of diverse and con-
flicting obligations-Causes that justify a discontinuance of Friend-
ship-We love our friends in the same way as we love ourselves
-Kindly feeling-Unanimity--Why does the doer of a kindness
love the recipient more than he is loved by him?-Ought we to
love ourselves or others most? - Distinction between Selfishness
and Love of Self-The happy man will stand in need of friends—
How many friends is it well to have?-Is it in prosperity or in
adversity that friends are most necessary?—Friendship commences
and grows with intercourse
257
!
xxiv
CONTENTS.
مات المالية :
BOOK X.
A discussion with regard to Pleasure is a necessary part of an
Ethical treatise-Dialectical discussion of the thesis of Eudoxus,
that Pleasure is the Chief Good-Discussion and refutation of the
contrary thesis, that no Pleasure whatever is a good-Pleasure is
in itself an absolute whole, and complete at any moment-Pleasure
is the inseparable accompaniment of a perfect act-Pleasures differ
from one another in kind-Happiness consists in the exercise of
pure thought-Praises of the Life Philosophic-To educate others
successfully we require a knowledge of Political Philosophy-The
condition of Political Philosophy is at present unsatisfactory-Sketch
of the Politics
PAGE
292
ANALYSES.
xix
1
Here are cleared
up some con-
fusing words.
Personally considered.
8. Iς φιλία εὔνοια? No. For it cannot be πρὸς ἀγνῶτας καὶ λαν-
θάνουσα. Is φίλησις εὔνοια? Νο. For it has διάτασιs and ὄρεξις ;
εὔνοια is quasi ἀρχὴ φιλίας.
9. Iς φιλία ὁμόνοια? Νο. ὁμόνοια ἐς τὸ ὁμογνωμονοῦν περὶ τὰ πρακτὰ,
ἐνδεχόμενα πᾶσιν. It is a sort of πολιτικὸν φιλικόν. Nor is it
ὁμοδοξία either.
10. Why does the doer love more than the receiver ?
a. Is it because it is a debt?
β. φυσικώτερον; because each man loves his own works; cf.
artists and especially poets.
Why does he love his work?
Because
α. Τὸ εἶναι is αἱρετὸν—ἐσμὲν δ' ἐνεργείᾳ; the ἔργον is the
doer in actuality.
β. For the εὐεργετὴς, τὸ καλὸν is κατὰ τὴν πράξιν.
γ. μένει τὸ ἔργον καὶ ἡ μνήμη, τὸ δὲ χρήσιμον παρέρχεται.
δ. Good is active, not passive, and the doer φιλεῖ, the re-
ceiver only φιλεῖται.
ε. τὸ ἐπίπονον συγγενές. The more labour, the more love.
11. Are we to love ourselves or others most ? μία ψυχή· ἰσότης
ἡ φιλία· γόνυ κνήμης ἔγγιον but on the other hand selfish-
ness is blamed.
Answer: Φίλαυτος in two senses ; namely, of τὰ σωματικὰ and of νοῦς.
He who is least píλavros in the lower sense is most so in the
higher: πρὸς τὸ κυριώτατον (cf. ἐγκράτεια); and so even the
greatest sacrifices, if made ἕνεκα τοῦ καλοῦ in friendship, are
φιλαυτία.
12. Does the εὐδαίμων need friends, the αὐτάρκης helpers? Yes,
because
a. They are the greatest of goods.
β. ἀρετὴ manifests itself in doing good.
γ. Man is πολιτικὸς and συζῇν πεφυκώς.
The error lies in mistaking the 'χρήσιμοs for the true φιλός. This
last is needed, for
a. Friends intensify by sympathy and example our ἐνέργειαι,
and τὸ οἰκεῖον is ἡδύ. Both these help θεωρία.
β. They help us ἐνεργεῖν, like harmonies to a musician.
γ. Their virtues become a sort of ἄσκησις to us, ἐσθλῶν μὲν
γὰρ ἐπ' ἐσθλά.
δ. Φυσικώτερον.
αἴσθησις and νόησις.
Life is good. Life is pleasant. Life is
Friends make the sense of αἰσθάνεσθαι
XX
ANALYSES.
and voeîv (i.e. of life) more vivid, and so life more alperov and
not deficient.
13. Then must friends be many? No.
The πόσον is not ἕν τι
but πᾶν τὸ μεταξὺ τίνων ὡρισμένων. As in a πόλις, there are
practical difficulties; πολλοῖς συζἣν ὑπερβολή.
14. Are friends for prosperity or adversity? ȧvaykaιórepoι in
the latter, κаλλíoves in the former. A brave man is not
Opnunτikos, and will not involve his friends; but on the other
hand the misfortunes of our friends are a test, and we must not
be ungenerous.
15. Sight is the speciality of ἔρως, συζῆν of φιλία; φιλία is
the sense of an additional life helping the feebleness of our
ἐνέργεια and of our nature; we are πολιτικά and συζητικά
Swa; we cannot live alone, nor alone maintain a continuous
flow of our highest energies.
•
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
All action presupposes an end-This end is the object of Political
Science-Ethical generalisations are only approximate-Ethics re-
quires for its study a mind properly trained-Happiness is the one
end of all our actions -Ethics consists of generalisations from expe-
rience-Erroneous conceptions of Happiness-The Idea of Good as
conceived by Plato-The Chief Good must be final, all-adequate, and
sui generis-Happiness consists in the consciousness of a life in
which the highest Virtue is actively manifested, and which must be
of adequate length-How far is Ethics matter of demonstration ?—
Our definition of Happiness is confirmed by popular opinion, and
by recognised theories-Happiness is in our own power-Discussion
of the dictum of Solon-The evil fortune of the living in no way
affects the dead-Happiness is a thing which calls for honour rather
than for praise-The Soul may be divided into two parts, the
Rational and the Irrational
PAGE
1
BOOK II.
Moral Virtue does not come by nature-It is acquired by the practice
of virtuous acts-Both excess and defect are alike prejudicial to
Moral Virtue-Moral Virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain-
The analogy between the Arts and the Virtues is faulty-Moral
Virtue is a Habit or Formed State-It differs from other habits
in that it observes the mean between excess and defect-This can
be confirmed by a detailed examination of the various moral virtues
-Relation of the mean to the two extremes-Practical rules for
the acquisition of Moral Virtue
29
xxii
CONTENTS.
BOOK III.
Involuntary acts are either done under compulsion, or from igno-
rance-Mixed actions-Distinction between involuntary and non-
voluntary acts-Ignorance of details-Acts of anger and of desire
are not involuntary-Definition of Purpose-Definition of Delibe-
ration-What is the object of Wish?-Bad acts are as much in our
own power as are good-We are responsible for our character-
Discussion of the Platonic thesis that vice is involuntary-Bravery
-Spurious forms of Bravery-Temperance
PAGE
49
BOOK IV.
Liberality-Magnificence - High-mindedness - Ambition Gentle-
ness-Friendliness-Truthfulness-Wittiness-Shame
• 83
BOOK V.
Various meanings of the terms 'Justice' and 'Injustice'-Justice con-
sidered as co-extensive with Virtue-Particular Justice, and its
various kinds-Distributive Justice-Corrective Justice-Catallactic
Justice-Theory of exchange-In what sense it is that Justice is a
mean-The field of Justice proper is civil society-Justice is either
natural or conventional-All wrong-doing must be voluntary-
Various kinds of wrong-doing—A man cannot suffer wrong against
his own will-Casuistical questions concerning Justice and Injustice
-Equity-A man cannot wrong himself
. 115
BOOK VI.
The rational part of the Soul may be subdivided into two parts-the
Speculative and the Deliberative-The office of the speculative
part is pure thought; that of the deliberative part, moral action
Science-Art-Prudence -Induction - Philosophy - Philosophy
is higher and nobler than is any form of Prudence-Prudence is
concerned with singulars, Philosophy with universals-Moral Per-
ception - Good Deliberation - Appreciation-Consideration-Mu-
tual inter-dependence of the Moral Faculties-Problems with regard
to Philosophy and Prudence-Relation of Prudence to Cleverness,
and of true Virtue to instinctive-Prudence and Virtue are recipro-
cally connected
151
•
1
THE NICOMACHEAN ETHICS
OF ARISTOTLE.
I.
I.(1.) ALL MORAL ACTION, that is to say all purpose, no less
than all art and all science, would seem to aim at some
good result. Hence has come a not inapt definition of
the chief good as that one end at which all human actions
aim. Now ends clearly differ from one another. For,
firstly, in some cases the end is an act, while in others it
is a material result beyond and beside that act. And,
where the action involves any such end beyond itself,
this end is of necessity better than is the act by which it
was produced. And, secondly, since there are many
kinds of moral action, and many arts, and many sciences,
their ends are also many; medicine, for example, giving
us health, boat-building a boat, tactics victory, and econo-
mics wealth. And, where many such arts are subordi-
nated to some one, as to riding is subordinated bridle-
making, and all other arts concerned with the production
of accoutrements for horses, while riding itself, and with
it all other martial service, is subordinated to the science
of military tactics, and in many other arts the same
scale of subordination is to be found,-in all such cases
the end of the supreme art or science is higher than are
the ends of the arts subordinate to it; for it is only for
B
2
[Book I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
2.
the sake of the former that the latter are sought. And
herein it matters not, as can be seen from the instances
above given, whether the end of the supreme act be the
act itself, or a something beyond it.
If then there be some one end of all that we do, for
which we wish for its own sake, while for other things we
wish only in so far as they are means to this,—that is to
say, if every object of choice be not a means to something
(2.) further, in which case the chain of means would be
infinite, and our desires empty and objectless,—it is
evident that this end will be the chief and the supreme
good. Surely then a scientific knowledge of it will have
a critical influence upon our lives, and will make us, like
bowmen who have a mark at which to aim, all the more
likely to hit upon that which is our good. And, if this
be so, we must endeavour to describe it at least in outline,
and to say of what science or of what art it is the pro-
vince. It would seem to be the object of that art which
is the master art, and so the most supreme. And such,
manifestly, is the art political. For this it is that de-
termines what branches of knowledge ought to be
pursued in States, and which are to be studied by the
individual citizens, and up to what point. And to this
art moreover we see subordinated all those arts that are
held in most esteem, such as are the arts strategic,
economic, and rhetoric. And so, since this art uses as its
instruments all the other practical branches of knowledge,
and further lays down general principles as to what must
be done and what avoided, its end will comprehend the
end of all these other arts, and will consequently be the
supreme human good. For, although the end of the
individual and of the State may perhaps be identical, yet
that of the State is evidently a grander and more com-
plete object both to win and to preserve. Choiceworthy as
perfection may be even for the individual, far more noble
1
CHAP. III.]
3
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
3
and divine is it for Nations and for States. Such then
is the aim of our treatise, which may consequently be
described as political.
Our statements will be adequate if made with as much
clearness as the matter allows. Abstract accuracy is no
more to be expected in all philosophic treatises than in all
products of art, and noble and just acts, with which the
art political is concerned, admit of such great variation
and of so many differences that they have been held to
depend upon conventional rather than upon real distinc-
tions. And much the same variation is to be found in
things good, in that many are incidentally injured by
them; for men have often, ere now, been brought to ruin
by wealth, and in some cases again by courage. We
must consequently rest well satisfied if in treating of such
matter, and with premisses thus uncertain, we can exhibit
(3.) a rough | outline of the truth, and if, since our premisses
are mere generalities, and our matter akin to them, we
can derive from them conclusions of a like generality.
And it is in this same spirit that all our statements
ought to be received. A man who has been well trained
will not in any case look for more accuracy than the
nature of the matter allows; for to expect exact demon-
stration from a rhetorician is as absurd as to accept from
a mathematician a statement only probable. Now each
man can give a good judgment upon matters with which
he is acquainted, and is in such cases a good judge. In
each particular case, therefore, he judges best who has
been taught the matter in question, and on all matters he
whose education has been universal. And hence it is
that a young man is not a fit student of the art political;
for he has had no experience in matters of daily life,
with which matters our premisses are concerned, and of
which our conclusions treat. And since, moreover, he is
prone to follow his desires, he will listen without purpose,
B 2
4
[Book I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
4.
and so without benefit. For the true object of ethical
study is not merely the knowledge of what is good, but
the application of that knowledge. And this is true of
him who is young in character equally with him who is
young in years, since the defect is not so much because
his years have been few as because his life as a whole,
and consequently his every action, is guided by the
passion of the moment. Knowledge of what is right is
as profitless to such men as it is to the incontinent;
whereas, if a man controls his desires and his actions as
reason orders, knowledge of ethical science cannot but
aid him much. And this must be sufficient preface as to
the fit student of ethics, the modality of the matter, and
the end which we propose.
And now again, to resume, since all our acts, whether
intellectual or moral, aim at some good end, what is the end
at which we assert that the art political aims,—that is to
say, what is the highest of all goods attainable by human
action? Upon its name almost all men are agreed. For
both the untaught many and the educated few call it
Happiness, and understand this same happiness to con-
sist in a good and a prosperous life. But as to what this
(4.) happiness exactly is they disagree, so that hereupon |
´popular and philosophic views conflict. Some say that it
is a something tangible and conspicuous, such as is plea-
sure, or wealth, or honour,-some, in short, give one ac-
count of it, and some another; and often the same man's
views will vary, and when seized by sickness he will
assert that happiness is health, and when pressed for
money that it is wealth; while those, again, who are con-
scious of their own ignorance, marvel at him who con-
verses upon matters which are great, and too high for
them. And some, again, have held that, beyond and be-
side these many particular goods, there is an absolute
and universal good, from which is derived the goodness
!
CHAP. IV.]
5
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
:
ம்
5.
of these many singulars. To sift so many views were
perhaps a purposeless task. It will be sufficient if we
examine those which are most widely spread, or which
seem to have some foundation upon which to rest. We
must further bear in mind the difference between the
synthetical method, which proceeds from the universal
to the singular, and the analytical, which proceeds from
the particular to the universal. And, indeed, Plato did
well in investigating, and in attempting to solve the
question whether method is to be synthetic or analytic,-
either being conceivably possible, exactly as in a race-
course one can run from the starters to the goal, or from
the goal to the starters. In either case, however, we
must begin with truths taken upon their own evidence.
Of these there are two kinds-the universal, which is
first in the order of nature; and the particular, which is
first for man, or in the order of experience. We then had,
perhaps, best begin with those principles which are first
for man.
And hence he who is to be a competent
student of what is noble, and of what is just, or, in a
word, of the art political, ought previously to have been
trained in good habits. For the first principle from
which ethics start is the particular fact of experience, of
which if we are perfectly convinced that it is such or
such, our conviction is in no way strengthened by know-
ledge of the why and wherefore. He who has been thus
trained will either already know the more general princi-
ples of the science, or will with ease acquire them. But
he who knows neither the universal rule, nor the parti-
cular fact, had best turn an ear to the proverb of Hesiod-
Wisest is he who of himself hath knowledge,
And wise is he who lists to prudent counsel;
But whoso nor hath knowledge, nor to others
Lendeth his ear, is but an idle dullard.
But, to return to the point from which we commenced
6
[BOOK I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
our digression, the many and baser sort give by their
lives a fair presumption that their conception of the chief
(5.) good and of happiness is that it consists in material plea-
sure for their only delight is in a life of gross enjoyment.
There are, indeed, but three noteworthy modes of life,
the one just mentioned, the life of the statesman, and the
third, the life of the philosopher. Now the many are
clearly in no way better than slaves, in that they deli-
berately choose the life of brute beasts. Nor would their
view call for consideration, were it not that many of
those who are high in power are of like passions with
Sardanapalus. On the other hand, the refined and edu-
cated class, who devote themselves to active life, identify
the chief good with honour. Honour, indeed, seems upon
the whole to be the end of the statesman's life. And yet
it is clearly too purely external and superficial a thing to
be the good of which we are in quest. For honour would
seem to rest rather with those who give than with those.
who receive it, whereas we divine that the chief good is a
something that rests with a man's self, and that is hard to
be alienated. Moreover, it would seem that statesmen
only pursue honour as a self-convincing proof of virtue:
certain at least is it that they seek to be held in honour
by the prudent and among those by whom they are
known, and for their virtue. And hence it is clear that
in their view at least, if not in that of others, virtue must
rank the higher. And hence one may perhaps be led to
suppose that it is virtue that is the end of the statesman's
life. Yet even virtue itself would seem to fall short of
being an absolute end. For it is possible that the pos-
sessor of virtue should for the whole of his life either sleep,
or be otherwise inactive, or, yet more than this, that the
greatest evil and misfortune should befall him. And no
one, save from pure love of paradox, can maintain that
he is happy whose life is such as this. Of these two modes,
CHAP. VI.]
7
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
4.
6.
then, of life enough has now been said: they have, indeed,
been adequately discussed in popular treatises. There
remains only the third life, the life philosophic, which we
shall consider hereafter. As for the money-getting life, it
violates the natural fitness of things. Wealth is clearly
not the absolute good of which we are in search, for it is
a utility, and only desirable as a means. Hence one would
be better justified in adopting as the chief good any of the
ends mentioned above; for they are desired in and for
themselves. And yet it is evident that the chief good is
none of these, although in their behalf many arguments.
have been brought forward.
Thus much, then, for these views. And next we
had best, perhaps, consider what is the exact meaning to
be attached to the conception of the one absolute good;
(6.) although such a discussion is not without its difficulties,
seeing that the doctrine of transcendental ideas was intro-
duced by those whom we hold dear. And yet, where the
interests of truth are at actual stake, it would seem as if it
were, perhaps, better for us, and indeed incumbent upon
us to sacrifice even that which is our own-if, at least, we
are to lay any claim to a philosophic spirit. Both are
dear to us alike, but truth must be religiously preferred.
In the first place, then, even they who were the first to
introduce this notion did not form universal ideas com-
prehending individual conceptions essentially prior and
posterior to one another, and hence did not frame any one
universal idea comprehending all numbers. Now good
can be conceived as substance, and as quality, and as
relation. But essence, that is to say substance, is of
necessity prior to relation, which would seem to be so
purely an outgrowth of essence, and hence accidental to
it, that there cannot be any one common universal idea
which comprehends the two. Secondly, good can be
. conceived in as many modes as can being: it can be con-
8
[BOOK I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
.
4
ceived as substance, as God, for example, or as the reason;
and as quality, as the various virtues; and as quantity,
as the exact mean; and as relation, as that which sub-
serves to a given end; and as time, as the exact moment;
and as place, as a healthy abode; and in many other like
ways. And it is therefore plain that there cannot be any
one and indivisible common universal of goods; for, if so,
good would not fall under all possible categories, but
under only one. Thirdly, since of those things that fall
under one universal idea the science is one and the same,
it would follow that there ought to be but one science of
all possible goods. But, as it is, there are many different
sciences, even of those goods that fall under one category.
Take, for example, time, and in war we have tactics, and
in disease medicine; or take the mean, and we have in
diet medicine again, and in exercise gymnastics. And,
again, one may reasonably ask what it is that is meant by
the phrase 'absolute,' since only one and the same
account can be given of the humanity of the absolute
man and of that of the individual man. In so far as each
is man there can be no difference between them; and so,
in so far as each is good, there can be no difference
between the absolute and the individual good. Nor will
its eternity make the former any the more good, just as
that which has been white for centuries is none the more
white than is that which is white only for a day. A more
rational account of the whole matter is that of the Pytha-
(7.) goreans. They make | unity only one of their 'file' of
goods; and even Speusippus would seem inclined to
follow their view. Of these matters, however, we will
treat elsewhere. But, as against the arguments above.
alleged, the objection may be suggested that the con-
ception of an absolute good is not intended to apply
indiscriminately to all concrete goods whatever; for that
of such there are two distinct kinds, firstly those that are
CHAP. VI.]
9
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
sought and are held precious for their own sake, and
secondly those that produce, or in some way tend to
preserve these former, or to counteract their contraries;
and that these latter are called good in only a secondary
sense, as being means to the former. Now it is clear
that this double division of concrete goods, namely, into
ends and into means, is admissible; let us then consider,
quite apart from all means, those goods that are ends in
themselves, and consider if these can be comprehended in
any one generic conception. Now what are these goods
that are ends in themselves? Are they all the several
ultimate and independent objects of human pursuit, such
as reason, and sight, and certain kinds of pleasures and
of honours; all of which are undeniably ends in them-
selves, although, perhaps, capable of being pursued as
means? Or is there no such good at all save and except the
one absolute good itself? In the latter case we shall have
framed an abstract universal without any concrete intent.
In the former we ought to be able to show of all such
goods that one and the same account can be given of their
goodness, as can of the whiteness in snow and in ceruse.
But of honour, and of reason, and of pleasure, entirely
distinct and different accounts must be given, even in so
far as each of them is a good. And so the goodness of
these goods cannot be brought under any one generic
conception. Why, then, is it that they are all called
good? For it hardly seems to be a case of accidental
equivocation. Is it that they all have one common
origin, or that they all tend to one and the same end?
Or is it not rather that they all stand in an analogous
relation to their various objects; much as the relation of
sight to the body is analogous to that of reason to the
soul, and to certain other relations between various
objects? And here, perhaps, we had best dismiss these
questions about good in the abstract (an accurate investi-
ΙΟ
[Воок І.
THE NICOMACHEAN
gation of which is the province of other branches of
philosophy rather than the present), and with them all
questions concerning the one absolute and transcendental
good. For, even if there were some one such unity of
all good, either essentially predicable of all possible con-
crete goods, or transcendent and separable from them, it
is clear that man could not make it the end of his action,
or in any way gain possession of it; whereas the good of
which we are for the present in quest must be of this
nature. And yet it might, perhaps, seem that in our
search for such goods as can be acquired by man, or
be gained by human action, we should be the better for a
(8.) theoretic knowledge of some such an absolute good.
For it would serve us as a type by reference to which we
should be more likely to know, and so, consequently, to
obtain all such concrete things as are good for our
particular selves. And, indeed, this argument is not
devoid of plausibility, although it would seem to find its
refutation in the actual practice of the various arts.
For, although all the arts aim at some concrete good,
with respect to which they seek to supply all our defects,
yet they altogether ignore any knowledge of this one
absolute good. And yet, were it really so great an aid,
one would hardly expect that all those who practise the
various arts should not only be ignorant of it, but should
never even inquire into it. And it is, indeed, hard to see
wherein a weaver or a carpenter will, in so far as regards
his own particular craft, gain anything from a knowledge
of the one absolute good; or how any speculation upon
transcendental health, or transcendental victory, will
make a man a better physician, or a better general. It
is indeed evident that the physician is not concerned
with health in the abstract, but with the health of man;
or rather perhaps with the health of individuals, since it
is the individual, after all, whom he has to heal.
CHAP. VII.]
I I
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
7.
And here we will close this digression, and return
to the question of what is that highest human good of
which we are in quest. It is clear that every course of
action and every art has its own peculiar good; for the
good sought by medicine is one, and the good sought by
tactics is another; and of all other arts the same rule
holds. What, then, is in each case the chief good?
Surely it will be that to which all else that is done is but
a means. And this in medicine will be health, and in
tactics victory, and in architecture a house, and so forth
in other cases; and in all free action, that is to say in all
purpose or conscious choice of means to a desired end, it
will be that end; for it is with this in view that we
always take all the other steps in the particular action.
And so, if there be but one end of all things that we do,
this will be, in all human action, the chief good; while,
if there be more than one, it will be their sum. Our
argument, therefore, has now returned to the question
from which it originally digressed, and which we must
endeavour yet more thoroughly to clear up. Now, since
there are clearly many and divers ends, some of which
we occasionally choose as means, such as wealth, or
pipes, or instruments generally, it is evident that all
these various ends cannot be final; whereas the chief good
is clearly a something absolutely final. So that, if there
be but one thing alone that is final, this will be the good
(9.) of which we are in quest; and, if there be more than
1
one, then it will be the most final among them. Now we
call that which is pursued for its own sake more final than
that which is pursued as a means to something further;
and that which is never chosen as a means we call more
final than any such things as are chosen both as ends in
themselves and as means to this; while, to sum up, we
call that alone absolutely final which is in all cases to be
chosen as an end, and never as a means. And happiness
I 2
[BOOK I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
would seem to be pre-eminently such; for happiness we
always choose as an end, and never as a means; while
honour, and pleasure, and reason, and, generally, every
kind of virtue we do indeed choose as ends (for we should
choose each one of them, even if they bore no good fruit),
but we choose them also for the sake of happiness, thinking
that by their means we shall be happy. But happiness
itself no man ever chooses for the sake of these things, or
indeed as a means to aught beyond itself. And the all-
sufficiency of happiness clearly leads to the same con-
clusion; for the final human good is always held to be
all-sufficient. Nor do we understand that the range of
this all-sufficiency is to be restricted to the individual in a
life of isolation, but rather hold that it also includes his
parents, and his children, and his wife, and indeed his
friends generally, and his fellow-citizens, since man's true
nature is to be citizen of a free state. And yet some
limit must be fixed herein; for were one so to extend
this as to take in a man's ancestors, and his descendants,
and the friends of his friends, the circle would become
infinite. This question, however, we will consider at
some other time, and for the present will define as all-
sufficient that which alone and by itself can make our
life desirable, and supply all our needs. And we are of
opinion that happiness is such. And, moreover, happiness
is the most desirable of all things, in that there is nothing
else which is on a par with it, and so capable of being
added to it. Were not this so, then the addition of any
such other good, no matter how small, would evidently
render it more desirable. For any such addition would
constitute a surplus of good; and of any two goods the
greater is always the more choiceworthy. Happiness,
then, is clearly a something complete in itself, and all-
sufficient, forming the one end of all things done by man.
But still to say nothing more about happiness than that
CHAP. VII.]
13
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
|
it is the greatest of all goods is clearly but little better
than a truism, and one seems to yearn for a yet more
exact and definite account. This we shall most probably
(10.) obtain from the consideration of what it is that man, as
man, has to do. For, as in the case of flute players, and
of sculptors, and of all craftsmen, and indeed of all those
who have any work of their own to do, or who can
originate any especial train of action, it is in this their
especial work or function that their chief good and greatest
welfare lie, so too ought it to be in the case of man as man,
if as man he has any special functions of his own.
Are we
then to believe that man as carpenter, or that man as cobbler,
has a function of his own, and so can originate an especial
course of action; while as man he lacks this, and has no task
assigned him by nature? Shall we not rather say that
exactly as the eye, and the hand, and the foot, and each of
the various members, evidently has its office, so too, beyond
and beside all these, must be assigned an office to man, as
such? And, if so, what are we to say that this office is?
Life he has in common even with plants, whereas what
we seek is that, whatever it is, that is especial and
peculiar to himself. The life of mere nutrition and
growth may therefore be set aside. Next to this in order
is what may be called the life of the senses. But even
this is shared by horses, and by oxen, and by all beasts.
There only remains what may be described as a life of
free moral action, belonging to that part of us which
possesses reason, and which may possess it, either as
being obedient to its commands, or as properly possessing
and exercising it in consecutive thought. And, as this
life can be conceived in two aspects, we will take it in
its active state, for then more properly is it called life.
If, then, the function or office of man as such be an
active life or activity of the soul in accordance with
reason, or at least not without reason, and if we say that
14
[BOOK I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
the work of such an one and that of such an one who is
good of his sort differ not in kind, as in the case of a
harper and of a good harper,—and if we are to say this
in every case, our conception of the work itself remain-
ing unaltered by any additional excess of excellence; a
harper's work being to play the harp, and the work of a
good harper to play it well,-if all this be so, and if
we are to take as the function of man a certain kind of
life, and to make this life consist in an activity of the
soul, that is to say in moral action consciously accom-
panied by reason; and to take as the function of the good
man the doing all this well and perfectly, remembering
that it is its own excellence alone that causes each thing
to be well and properly completed,-then, if all this be
so, we shall find that the chief good of man consists in
an activity of the soul in accordance with its own
excellence (or, in other words, such that the essential
conditions of its excellence are fulfilled), and, if there be
many such excellencies or virtues, then in accordance
with the best and the most perfect among them. And
we must further add the condition of a complete life; for
a single day, or even a short period of happiness, no more
makes a blessed and a happy man than one sunny day or
(11.) one swallow | makes a spring.
Such then in outline is our conception of the chief
good; for it is perhaps best first to sketch out our idea,
and then afterwards to fill it in. And it would indeed
seem that, when such an outline has once been correctly
traced, anyone can add to it the necessary boldness of
relief, and distinctness of connection in its details; and
that it is time that discovers such improvements, or that
is at any rate a good helper in the quest. And in this
way it is that the arts have grown, since what is in each
case deficient any man can supply. And we must further
remember what we have said before, and must not require
СНАР. VIII.]
15
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
8.
abstract exactness in all cases alike, but only so far in
each as is allowed by the matter, and as suits the in-
vestigation. That which a carpenter requires in a straight
line is one thing, and that which a geometrician requires
is another. The one is concerned with it only in so
far as it is of actual use for the work which he has in
hand; the other regards it in its generic and essential
aspects, since abstract truth is the object of his specula-
tions. And in other matters also we must be guided by
the same rule, lest the details should outgrow and obscure
the main conception. Nor must we in all cases alike
require demonstration by causes, but must sometimes rest
content with a clear statement of fact. All first principles,
for example, must be taken upon their own evidence;
and each fact of experience is a first principle, being an
ultimate truth, upon which further arguments can be based.
Some first principles are given us by induction, others
by the senses, while others again require a special habitua-
tion,-in short, various principles are gained in various
ways. And we must do our best to acquire each kind as
suits its nature, and must use all zeal to apprehend them
clearly and distinctly, for they have a great and a critical
influence upon our conclusions. Indeed it would seem that
The principal is more than half the sum,
and that a clear statement of premisses makes many
problems self-evident.
But, to resume, we must investigate the nature of
happiness, not only from the point of view afforded us
by our conclusion, and by our premisses, but also from
that of the statements made by others. For with a true
theory all facts agree, while with what is false truth
quickly finds itself at variance. Now there is an old
(12.) triple division of goods into goods external, | goods of the
soul, and goods of the body; of which it is held that
16
[BOOK I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
those of the soul are the highest and the chief. But
moral action, inasmuch as we make it an activity of the
soul, belongs to the soul; so that our statements hold
good by the test of this rule, which has been sanctioned
by time, and by the assent of philosophers. And we are
right, moreover, in that we make the end of life to consist
in an activity, that is to say in moral action. For happiness
thus becomes a good of the soul, and not a good external.
And, again, the proverb that the happy man lives well
and fares well is in harmony with our definition. For
what we have described is but a sort of fair-living and
prosperity.
And, again, all the scientific determinations of hap-
piness are clearly comprised in our definition. For some
hold that happiness lies in virtue, others that it is pru-
dence, or some kind of philosophic knowledge, and others
that it is all of these together, or some one of them, ac-
companied by pleasure, or at least not without pleasure;
while others again hold that material prosperity is in it
an essential element. And of these views some depend on
common experience and old authorities, and others on the
authority of a few, but those men of high repute. Nor
is it likely that either side are entirely wrong, but rather
that in some one point at least they are right, if not in
most. Now with those who say that happiness is either
virtue as a whole, or some one particular form of virtue,
our definition concords. For an activity in accordance
with virtue will itself involve such virtue. And it mat-
ters perhaps no little whether the chief good be conceived
as a mere possession, or as a something of which use is to
be made that is to say as a mere formed habit, or as an
activity. For such a habit may possibly exist in a man,
and yet bear no good fruit, as when he is asleep, or other-
wise inactive. But with the activity itself it cannot pos-
sibly be thus. He who displays this must of necessity be
CHAP. VIII.]
17
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
acting, and, what is more, acting well. For as at the
Olympic games it is not the fairest and the strongest who
are crowned, but they that contend-for amongst these it
is that the victory falls-so too, among the noble and
good in life, it is they that act rightly who become mas-
ters of life's prize. And the life of such men has in itself
a pleasure of its own. Activities of the soul, no less than
those of the body, have their own pleasure; and, since
each man takes pleasure in that which he is said to love—
(13.) as a lover of horses in horses, and a lover of shows in
shows-it follows that, in the same way, the lover of
justice will take pleasure in justice; and, generally, the
lover of virtue in virtue. Now, for the majority of men,
the objects that yield them pleasure are discordant, inas-
much as they are not really pleasant in themselves; but,
for those who love what is noble, those things yield plea-
sure that are intrinsically pleasant. And all virtuous
acts are such; so that to such men they afford a pleasure—
and that, too, a pleasure intrinsic to themselves.
Such a
life, then, needs no pleasure to deck it like an amulet, for
it has in itself a pleasure of its own. And, indeed, we
may add that the man who takes no pleasure in noble
acts cannot possibly be a good man. For surely no one
would call him just who took no pleasure in fair dealing;
or him liberal who took no pleasure in liberal acts; and
so forth in every virtue. And, if this be so, then virtuous
acts cannot but be intrinsically pleasant. Aye, and,
more than this, they are also both good and noble; and are,
moreover, pre-eminently each of these, if the judgment of
the upright man about them be sound: and his judgment
is as ours. Happiness then is not only the best, but
also the noblest, and the most pleasant of all goods; nor
are these things distinct, as ran the inscription at Delos,
Justice is noblest; best of goods is health;
Sweetest to win the object of desire;
C
18
[Book 1.
THE NICOMACHEAN
for in our best acts all these characteristics are to be
found. And it is in these acts, or in that one among
them that is the best of all, that we say that happiness
consists. And yet, as we have said, it obviously wants a
certain addition of external goods; for, if not impossible,
it is at any rate difficult to do noble deeds, if stripped of
all such equipment. Friends, and wealth, and power in
the State, serve as instruments by which to win many
fair ends. And some things there are, to be devoid of
which casts a shadow over our happiness-such as are
noble birth, fair offspring, or beauty of person. For he
will hardly find happiness easy to win who is of utterly
(14.) mean appearance, or of ignoble birth, or who is childless,
and alone in life and perhaps still less so, should his
sons or his friends be utterly depraved, or have borne
themselves nobly only to die. As, then, we have said,
happiness would seem to need some such external pros-
perity as this. And hence it is that some have made it
identical with mere good fortune,-I say some, for others
make it virtue.
9.
:
Hence, too, arises the doubt whether happiness is to
be taught, or to be gained by habituation, or by any
other kind of practice, or whether it comes to us by some
divine lot, or even perhaps by chance. Most certainly,
if there be aught that is a free gift of Gods to men, it were
well to believe that happiness is such, and the more so as
it is the best of all human goods. This question, how-
ever, would perhaps be more in place in another treatise
than the present. Happiness, at all events, even if it be
not sent by the Gods, but is acquired by virtuous action,
and by a course of teaching, or of some such other prac-
tice, is clearly an object most divine. For the prize of all
virtue, being the chief and final good, cannot but also be
a something divine and full of joy. And it ought to be
widely shared, since it may be won through a course of
CHAP. X.]
19
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
pupilage and careful practice by all those who are not of
their own nature absolutely incapable of virtue. For, if
it be better that happiness should come to us thus rather
than by chance, it is but reasonable to hold that it does.
so come; since the works of nature, as a whole, are
ordered in the fairest possible way, exactly as are the re-
sults of art, and indeed of all causation, and especially
those of virtue, the noblest of all causes. It would be,
indeed, too sore a discord in Nature's harmony to intrust
to chance the greatest and fairest of all goods. And,
moreover, our own definition of happiness, as a certain
activity of the soul in accordance with virtue, makes the
question clear. For, of all other goods, some-those of
the body—are necessary for happiness; while others-
those external--are fitted by their very nature to be
means and instruments for its acquisition. And this,
moreover, agrees with what we said at first, when we
stated that the end of the art political was the chief good;
for this art spares no trouble to inspire the citizens with a
definitely virtuous character-such that they may be dis-
(15.) posed towards noble deeds. | And thus it is with good
reason that we never call happy either ox, or horse, or
any other beast; for to brute beasts nature has given ne
share in such acts as these. And hence, too, is it that
not even a boy is held happy, since his youth puts such
acts, as yet, out of his power; so that to call him happy
is but a fond expression of hope. For happiness pre-
supposes, as we have said, perfect virtue and a life in all
respects perfect. But many are the changes and divers
the chances in life; and it is possible that he who now
flourishes most should, as is fabled of Priam in the epic,
stumble in his old age upon great mishaps. And him
whose fortunes have been such as this, and his end
wretched, no man can call happy.
IO.
Are we then to call no man happy while he yet lives,
c 2
20
1
THE NICOMACHEAN
[BOOK I.
but to wait, as Solon advises, until we have seen the end
of his life? And, if we are to adopt this view, are we
then to say that the man is actually happy after his
death? Or is not this an altogether untenable position,
especially for us who have defined happiness as an
activity? And if, on the other hand, we do not mean
that the man when dead is actually happy, nor must
Solon be understood to say this, but rather that it is only
when he is dead that we can with safety assert that a man
is happy, since then only is he beyond the range of all
evil and mishap,-with this view also issue can be joined.
For it is held that things good and evil can happen to him
who is dead, exactly as they can to him who is alive but
not aware of them, such as are the honour or dishonour,
and indeed all other good or evil fortune, of his children,
and of his descendants generally. And herein arises a
fresh difficulty. For, however happy may have been a
man's life up to his old age, and however fitting thereunto
his death, it is none the less possible that many changes
should befall his descendants, and that some among them
should be upright, and should meet with a life according
to their deserts, while with others of them it should be far
otherwise; and it is also clear that in successive gene-
rations every possible degree of relationship may arise
between descendants and their ancestors. So that, while
(16.) on the one hand it is absurd to conceive | the dead man
as sharing all their vicissitudes, and as becoming happy
one moment and wretched the next, it is on the other
hand equally absurd to suppose that the fortunes of
descendants never, for however short a time, reach to their
ancestors. Perhaps, however, the solution of the present
question will present itself if we return to our original
problem. For, if we are to wait that we may see how a
man's life ends, and are then, and then only, to call him
happy, not as being now actually happy, but as having
CHAP. X.]
2 I
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
(17.)
been such; then surely it is absurd that when a man is
actually happy we should hold it premature to predicate
of him that which he actually enjoys, merely because the
vicissitudes of life are such that we are unwilling to call
men happy who are still alive; our conception of happi-
ness being that it is an abiding thing and in no way open
to change, while Fortune's wheel often turns many times.
this way and that in the same lifetime. For it is clear
that, if fortune be our test, we shall over and over again
have to call the same man first happy and then wretched,
thus making the happy man
Chameleon-hued; his house upon the sand.
Is it not rather true that fortune must in no way be our
guide? For, although man's life needs good fortune, as
we have said, yet it is not in fortune that good and evil
lie, but it is virtuous acts that determine life for happiness,
acts evil for misery. So that our present problem but
serves to testify to the accuracy of our definition of
happiness. For there is nothing human so surely lasting
as are virtuous acts. More lasting are they than even
scientific knowledge, and the most precious among them.
are the most lasting, in that those whose lot is blessed
most earnestly and most continuously pass their life in the
practice of them. And this would seem to be the reason
why their practice cannot be forgotten. Thus, then, the
happy man will enjoy that security of which we are in
quest, and will continue happy throughout his whole life.
For most continuously, or at least more continuously
than for any other man, will all his acts and all his
thoughts be most excellent, and his treatment of fortune
most noble and most consistently harmonious, who is
Truly good,
Square-finished, free from every flaw | of blame.
22
[BOOK I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
And, since the results of fortune are manifold, both great
and small, small changes of luck, whether for good or for
the reverse, clearly cannot turn the scale of life. But
Fortune, if she come for our good in many and in great
shapes, will make our life more blessed (for it is in the nature
of her gifts thus to add a lustre to our happiness, and to
use them well is fair and upright); while, if she come thus
for our harm, she crushes and mars our blessedness, bring-
ing with her a sore burden of pains, and hindering many
noble acts. But nevertheless even here true nobility
shines out, when a man bears calmly many and great mis-
haps, not through dulness of feeling, but from true high-
breeding and greatness of spirit. And, since, as we have
said, it is by our acts that our life is determined, no one
of the really blessed can ever become wretched, for he
can never do what is hateful and bad. For we hold that
the really good and prudent man will bear all changes of
fortune with good grace, and will always, as the case may
allow, act most nobly; exactly as the good general will
use such forces as are at his disposal the most skilfully,
and even the good cobbler will, out of such leather as he
may have, make the most perfect shoe; and of all those
who practise any other art the same rule will hold good.
And, if this be so, then never will he who is once happy
become wretched, though, if he fall upon a lot such as
that of Priam, he can hardly be called blessed. Nor
will his life have many shades and changes. For no light
thing will move him from his happiness, nor any chance
mishap, but only misfortunes great and many: and after
such he will not again become happy in a moment, but
only in a long and all-adequate time, sufficient to make
him master of prizes great and noble. Why, then, should
we not call him happy whose acts have been those
of consistent and perfect virtue, and whose equip-
ment of external goods has been sufficient, and that not
3
23
CHAP. XI.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
¡
(18.) for any chance period, | but for a lifetime of fair length?
Or must we add that he is to continue so to live, and that
his death is to match his life? Since for us the future
lies in obscurity, while we hold that happiness is the per-
fect crown of life, and a thing in all ways absolutely com-
plete. And, as this is so, we must call those among
the living happy whose lot is and will be such as we have
said, but happy only in so far as man can be so.
II.
Thus far then let us hold this question as settled. But,
as regards the misfortunes that befall a man's descendants,
and, indeed, all those whom he holds dear,-to suppose that
they in no degree contribute to the condition of the dead
is a view far too cold, and too opposed to all that men love
to believe. But, since the misfortunes that affect us are
many and of every shade, and some come more home to
us and some less, to distinguish each separate case would
clearly be a long and indeed an infinite task, and we shall
perhaps do best to rest content with a roughly sketched
and general statement. If then it be true that the mis-
haps which befall all those whom we love are like those
which affect ourselves, so that some of them have great
weight, and turn the scale of life, while others by com-
parison seem but light and if also it in each case matters
much more whether such evil befall them during our own
lifetime or after our death, than it matters whether law-
less and dread deeds be put before us in a tragedy, or
form an integral portion of our actual life;-then from
all this we cannot but conclude that the difference in
question is as great as we have said; or rather perhaps
that it is, after all, a doubtful point whether the dead are
sharers in human good or ill of any kind. For it would
seem from what we have said that, even if any such im-
pression reach them, it will be a something but shadowy
and trifling, either intrinsically or in its effects upon them,
or at any rate that it will only be such and of such extent
24
[Book I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
12. (19.)
as neither to make happy those who are not so already,
nor to rob the happy of their blessedness. The good for-
tune, then, no less than the bad fortune of their friends
upon earth clearly contributes to the lot of the dead; but
its effect is only such, and of such extent, as neither to
make unhappy those who are already happy, nor to pro-
duce any other change of equal importance.
And, now that this question is settled, let us consider
whether happiness belongs to the class of things that
deserve praise, or rather of those that are held in honour;
for it evidently is not a mere faculty, to be used indif-
ferently for evil or for good. Now it is clear that all
such things as deserve praise are praised in that they
have certain definite qualities, and so stand in a certain
relation to a something else. The just man, for example,
and the brave man, and indeed the good man generally,
and his goodness, we praise because of his actions and
of their results; and the strong wrestler, and the quick
runner, and so all others, we praise for a certain definite
gift of nature which they possess, and in virtue of which
they stand in a certain relation to some good and worthy
end. And this is clear from the fact that praise given to
the Gods makes them appear ridiculous, in that it refers
them to a human standard. Nor could this be otherwise,
since all praise, as we have said, involves a reference to
some standard of excellence. And, since it is only in
cases such as this that praise is given, it is evident that
to the best things praise must not be given, but a some-
thing greater and higher. And this is clear from the
fact that we attribute to the Gods perfect blessedness and
happiness, and call those men blessed who come nearest
to the Gods. And so, too, is it with things that are
good. No one praises happiness, as he praises just acts,
but, as being a something more divine and better, calls it
blessed. Eudoxus, moreover, seems to have skilfully
3
CHAP. XIII.]
25
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
pleaded the cause of pleasure for the first prize. For
the fact that it is a good thing, and yet is not praised, he
held to be a proof that it is higher and better than are all
such things as deserve praise; as is God, and as is the
chief good, with reference to which it is that praise is
bestowed upon all things else. Now praise is given to
virtue, for virtue it is that disposes us to noble deeds;
while panegyrics are awarded to external results whether
of bodily or of intellectual activity. An accurate treatment
of this question is, however, rather their task whose
business is panegyrics. We are content if from what has
been said we can clearly see that happiness has honour
for its meed, being a something absolutely perfect. And
this would indeed be evident, were we to reflect that it is
an ultimate motive, for the sake of which we all of us go
(20.) through all the various acts of life; and that the
ultimate motive and cause of all other things good we
cannot but suppose to be a something deserving of honour
and divine.
13.
And now, since happiness is an activity of the soul in
accordance with perfect virtue, we must inquire what is
virtue; for thus perhaps we shall be in a better position
to consider the nature of happiness. He who is a
political philosopher in the true sense of the word will
give virtue his most thorough attention, his object being
to make the citizens good, and, so, obedient to the laws.
And, as instances of this, we have the lawgivers of Crete
and of Lacedæmon, and all such others as are upon
record like to these. And so, since the discussion of
virtue is the province of political science, it is clear that
the present investigation will harmonise with our original
purpose. We have therefore to consider virtue, that is
to say, of course, the virtue of man; for it was man's
highest good, and man's happiness, of which we were in
quest. And by man's virtue we understand not that of
26
[BOOK I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
the body but that of the soul, since we have defined
happiness as an activity of the soul. And, if this be so,
it is clear that the politician must no less know about the
soul than he who is to heal the eye must know about the
body as a whole, and all the more so in that the art
political is higher and nobler than is medicine. And
indeed physicians of the higher and better sort interest
themselves no little in the knowledge of the body as a
whole. And hence it follows that the politician must
consider about the soul, and must consider it with this
end in view, that is to say so far only as is sufficient for
our present object; for further minuteness of discussion
would only entail more labour than is needed for our
purpose. Now, concerning the soul, even ordinary
language lays down certain sufficient distinctions, of
which we will make use; as, for example, that the soul
has two parts, the one irrational, the other possessed of
reason. Whether these parts are distinct in the same
sense as are the members of the body, and all else that is
capable of physical division, or rather are only distinct in
thought, being in their own nature absolutely inseparable,
exactly as are concavity and convexity in an arc, is a
(21.) question | immaterial to our purpose. And, again, of the
irrational part itself, there is yet a further part that would
seem to be common to man with other living things, and
to form the soul of plants. I speak of that principle
which is the cause of all nutrition and growth. For a
vital faculty of this nature one assigns to all things that
assimilate nutriment, as even to the foetus; and this self-
same faculty one also assigns to the full-grown being,
since such a supposition is more reasonable than it is to
hold that any substitution has taken place. Any excel-
lence or virtue that this part of our soul may possess is
clearly not peculiar to man, but is shared by him with
animals and with plants. It is in sleep, indeed, that this
:
CHAP. XIII.]
27
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
part or faculty of our soul is most active, and it is in
sleep that the good man and the bad are least distinguish-
able from one another; whence has come the saying, that
for one half their lives the happy in no way differ from
the wretched. Nor could we expect it to be otherwise.
For sleep is a torpor of our soul, in so far as it can be
called morally good or bad, save only where to some
slight extent certain of the movements of active life carry
themselves on into our slumber, and so render the dreams
of the good better than are those of ordinary men. On
these matters, however, we have now said enough, and
here we will close our discussion of the nutritive soul,
since nature has given it no part in that virtue which is
peculiarly human. And, again, there would seem to be
another element in the soul, which also is irrational, and
which yet to some extent partakes of reason.
For, in
the self-restrained, and also in the incontinent man, we
give praise to their reason, that is to say to the rational
portion of their soul, for that it exhorts them as is right,
and to the best course. But there is clearly, in each of
them, a something else, of its own nature opposed to
reason, which conflicts with reason, and strives to
counteract it. For, exactly as a palsied limb, when a
man purposes to move it to the right, swings round on
the contrary to the left, so too is it with the soul of the
incontinent man; for his impulses run counter to his
reason. Only, whereas in the body we can see the part
that so moves, in the soul we cannot see it. And yet,
perhaps, we must none the less on this account hold that
there is in the soul an element contradistinguished from
reason, which sets itself in opposition to reason, and goes
its way against it; although wherein precisely it is
distinct from reason concerns us not. And yet even this
(22.) part too has | clearly, as we have said, some share in
reason, for in the self-restrained man it certainly obeys
28
[Boox I.
THE NICOMACHEAN
his reason. And, in the man who is thoroughly tem-
perate and brave, it is perhaps yet more amenable; for
in him all his members are in harmony with reason.
Hence, then, it clearly appears that the irrational part of
our soul has two members, of which one, the nutritive,
is in no way concerned with reason; while the other, the
concupiscent, or, more generally, the appetitive part, in a
certain sense partakes of reason, in so far as it listens to
reason, and obeys its commands. It is in this sense that
we speak of showing a rational obedience to one's father,
or to one's friends, and not in that in which we speak of a
rational understanding of mathematical truths. And,
that the irrational part of our souls is to some extent
amenable to reason, all admonition, all rebuke, all ex-
hortation, is a proof. And hence, since even this part of
our souls is in a certain sense to be called rational, it
follows that the rational element in us will also have two
parts, the one in its own right possessing reason in itself,
while the other is obedient to reason, as is a son to his
father. And, in accordance with this division, we can.
classify the virtues, and call some of them intellectual
and others moral,-philosophy, appreciation, and prudence
being excellences or virtues of the intellect, while
liberality and temperance are moral virtues, or virtues.
of the character. For, when speaking of a man's
character, we do not say that he is a philosopher, or a
man of quick appreciation, but that he is gentle or
temperate. And yet we none the less praise the wise
man also for his state of mind, and understand by virtue
a praiseworthy state of mind.
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
29
II.
I. THERE are, then, two kinds of virtue, the intellectual
and the moral, of which the intellectual owes, for the
most part, its birth and growth to a course of inference,
so that for its perfection it needs experience, and conse-
quently length of time; while moral virtue, on the other
hand, is acquired by habit; the very word 'moral,' in-
deed, varying but little etymologically from its root,
(23.) ´ habit.' | And hence too it is clear that no one of the
moral virtues is an innate law of our nature.
For no
law of nature can be altered by habit. A stone, which
of its own nature moves downwards, no force of habit
will ever accustom to move upwards, nor would one ever
habituate it to such a motion by hurling it upwards any
number of times. Neither could fire be thus brought to
move downwards; nor, in short, can the action of any
natural law whatever be altered by habituation. Neither,
then, are the moral virtues an innate law of our nature,
nor is their acquisition a contravention of any such law;
but nature has given us a capability for them, and we
become perfected in them by habituation. And, again,
in the case of all things innate or connate in us, we have
the faculty first, and afterwards we manifest its acts. Of
this the senses are a clear instance, for we did not acquire
them by repeated acts of sight, or of hearing; we did not,
that is to say, acquire these faculties by practising their
acts; but, on the contrary, we had the faculty in question
before we practised its acts. But the virtues we acquire
30
[BOOK II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
by previous practice of their acts, exactly as we acquire
our knowledge of the various arts. For, in the case of
the arts, that which we have to be taught to do, that we
learn to do by doing it. We become masons, for instance,
by building; and harpers by playing upon the harp. And
so, in like manner, we become just by doing what is just,
temperate by doing what is temperate, and brave by doing
what is brave. And to this the practice of States bears
witness, for lawgivers make the citizens virtuous by a
course of habituation. It is this that every lawgiver has
in view; all want of success in this respect argues defec-
tive legislation; and it is herein that a good State differs
from a bad. And, moreover, it is from and by acts of the
same kind that all virtue has both its development and
its decay, exactly as has all artistic skill. For it is by
playing upon the harp that men become either good
harpers, or else bad; and of masons, and indeed of all
other craftsmen, the same rule holds good. For if men
build well they will become good masons, and if badly
(24.) bad.
Were not this so, no art would have needed an
apprenticeship, but men would have been either good
craftsmen or else bad from the very first. And so, too,
is it with the virtues. For, accordingly as we bear our-
selves in our transactions with other men, so do we be-
come either just or unjust; and, accordingly as we bear
ourselves in dangers, and accustom ourselves to act as
cowards or as brave, so do we become either cowards or
brave. And of all lust, and of all anger, the same rule
holds good. For men become either temperate and gentle,
or intemperate and hasty, accordingly as they bear them-
selves in such matters either one way or the other. And,
indeed, in a word, it is by acts of like nature with them-
selves that all habits are formed. And hence it becomes
our duty to see that our acts are of a right character.
For, as our acts vary, our habits will follow in their
CHAP. II.]
31
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
2.
(25.)
course.
It makes no little difference, then, to what kind
of habituation we are subjected from our youth up; but
it is, on the contrary, an important matter, or, rather, all-
important.
Since, then, the present treatise is not intended like.
certain others to give mere abstract knowledge, for our
investigations are not undertaken merely that we may
know what virtue is (else wherein would they benefit
us?), but rather that we may ourselves become virtuous,
we must therefore now consider after what fashion we
are to mould our acts. For it is our acts, as we have
said, that determine the character of our habits. That
they must be in accordance with right reason is an ele-
ment common to them with other things, and which may
with safety be assumed of them; and what this right
reason is, and what is its relation to the virtues, we will
hereinafter explain. And here again, before proceeding
further, it must be understood that all statements con-
cerning human action are to be taken as being true only
in rough outline, and not as being mathematically exact;
as indeed we said at first when we showed that only such
proof is to be expected as the matter admits. Men's
actions and interests are no more a matter of fixed rule
than are the conditions of health. And, since the general
principles of morality are of this nature, still less accurate
will be their application to | particular cases.
Such ap-
plication falls under no known art or traditional system
of rules, so that we must, on the occasion of each sepa-
rate action, be to a great extent guided by the circum-
stances of the time, exactly as we are in the practice of
medicine and of navigation. But, albeit that the difficul-
ties of the present subject are such, we must none the
less do the best that we can. First of all, then, we may
observe that in all human matters excess and defect are
alike prejudicial; as we can see (to take things seen for
གཡ—ག
32
[Book II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
evidence of things unseen) in the case of strength and of
health. For too much and too little exercise both alike
destroy our strength; and in like manner too much meat
and drink, and too little, both alike destroy our health;
while to eat and to drink in moderation, and to take exer-
cise in moderation, both produces, and increases, and pre-
serves health and strength. And so, too, is it with tem-
perance, and with bravery, and with the other virtues.
For he who shuns all dangers, and who is frightened at
everything, and who never bears a bold front, becomes a
coward; while he who never fears anything at all, and
who enters upon every venture, becomes fool-hardy.
And so, too, he who takes his fill of every pleasure, and
who refrains from none, becomes depraved; while he
who shuns all pleasures alike, as do the churlish, becomes
insensible. For both temperance and bravery are de-
stroyed by excess and by defect, and are preserved in
perfection by moderation. And not only is it from and
by the same kind of acts that all virtue has its birth, and
its increase, and its decay, but it is also in this same class
of acts that the energies in which it manifests itself will
lie. And in more obvious matters, such as strength for
example, the same rule holds good. For strength is
produced by eating much food, and by undergoing much
severe labour, and no one can do this so well as he who
is strong. And so, too, is it with the virtues. For by
abstaining from pleasures we become temperate, and
when temperate we are best able so to abstain. And
(26.) the same rule holds good of bravery. For by accus-
toming ourselves to bear our soul above all terrors, and
to confront them boldly, we become brave. And it is
when we are brave that we shall best be able to meet
3 dangers with a bold front. And as the test of our habits
we must take the pleasure or the pain that results from
our acts. For he who abstains from the pleasures of the
CHAP. III.]
33
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
body, and who takes delight in such abstinence, is a
temperate man, while he to whom such abstinence gives
pain is depraved. And he who faces danger, and does so
with delight, or at any rate without pain, he is brave;
while he who feels pain in acting thus is a coward. It is,
indeed, with pleasure and with pain that moral virtue is
concerned; for it is pleasure that leads us into disgraceful
acts, pain that forces us to abstain from acts noble. So
that, as Plato says, we ought to have been trained from
our youth up to feel pleasure and pain in fitting objects;
for this, and this alone, is good education.
Moreover,
since it is our actions, that is to say our emotions, that
are the field of moral virtue, and since either pleasure or
pain follows upon every emotion, and upon every action,
it becomes clear that virtue is concerned with pleasure.
and with pain. And punishment, which is inflicted in
the shape of pain, is a proof of this. For punishment is
intended as a moral medicine, and the nature of all medi-
cines is to act as the contraries of the diseases which they
cure. And moreover, as we have said before, all mental
habits are of their very nature directed towards and con-
cerned with those same things by which they are made.
either better or worse. And it is through the action of
pleasures and of pains that they become bad, in that we
pursue, or, as the case may be, avoid these pleasures or
pains either when they are such that we ought not to do
so, or upon wrong occasions, or in a wrong manner; or
fall into some other of the various forms of error that are
logically conceivable. And hence it is that virtue has
been defined as a state of tranquillity and of freedom from
emotion, but inaccurately. For this definition is too
general, needing such additions as, as we ought,' as we
ought not,'' when we ought,' and all such other determi-
nations as are logically possible. And we may therefore
regard it as established that moral virtue is concerned in
Ꭰ
34
[Book II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
such a manner with pleasures and with pains as to pro-
duce from them the best possible results,-vice the worst.
The following considerations will also serve to make the
matter clear. There are three things that determine us
(27.) for pursuit, and three for avoidance; the good, the
useful, and the pleasant, and their three contraries, the
bad, the hurtful, and the painful. And with respect to
all of these the judgment of the virtuous man is unerring,
and that of the vicious man prone to error; but most of
all is it so with respect to pleasure. For pleasure is a
motive which man shares with the animals, and which is
an element in all objects of choice; since even the good
and the useful are, both, clearly pleasant. Moreover, the
love of pleasure has been nurtured within us from our
cradle, and it is hard to bleach our lives of an emotion
with which they have been thus ingrained. Moreover,
pleasure and pain are as a rule by which we measure our
actions, some amongst us more exactly, some less. So that
with them our treatise as a whole must perforce deal.
For it makes no little difference to our actions whether
we feel pleasure and pain as we ought, or whether we
feel them as we ought not. Moreover, it is harder to
fight with pleasure than, as Heraclitus says, with anger.
And it is always with that which is the more difficult that
all art and all virtue are concerned; for in such a matter
to do well is the more excellent. So that, for this reason
again, both virtue, and with it the art political, the object
of which is virtue, will be entirely concerned with our
pleasures, and with our pains; which whoso uses well,
the same will be good; whoso badly, bad,
Thus, then, have we shown that virtue is concerned.
with pleasures and with pains; and that, if the acts from
which it has its birth continue to be done in like manner,
it waxes; while, if they be done otherwise, it wanes; and,
further, that the field wherein its acts lie is the same as
that from which it had its birth.
!
СПАР. IV.]
35
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
4.
But, again, a difficulty arises as to the exact meaning
of our assertion that we must do just acts if we wish to
become just, and temperate acts if we wish to become
temperate. For, it may be said, if men do acts which are
just and temperate, they cannot but be already just and
temperate; exactly as, for a man to produce a gram-
matical or a musical result, he must already be a gram-
marian or a musician. But then is this quite true even
of the arts? Is it not possible, for example, to spell a
word correctly by chance, or from dictation? Whereas
then, and then only, can a man be said to be a gram-
marian when he has produced a grammatical result, and
produced it grammatically, that is to say in virtue of a
(28.) knowledge | of grammar which he himself possesses. And,
even were this not so, there is no such exact analogy
between the arts and the virtues. The excellence of art
lies in its results, and it is therefore quite sufficient if
these results be so produced as in themselves to fulfil
certain required conditions. But moral acts are nut
said to be done virtuously, as justly, for example, or
temperately, if in themselves they fulfil certain con-
ditions, but only when certain conditions are fulfilled
by him who does the act. In the first place, he must
know what it is that he is doing. Secondly, he must
act with deliberate purpose, and must choose the act
for its own sake. Thirdly, he must so act from a fixed
and unalterable habit of mind. Now, as regards our
artistic skill, none of these conditions need be taken into
any account, except that we must know what it is that
we are doing. But, where virtue is concerned, such mere
knowledge is in itself of little or of no import, while the
other conditions (which are only to be acquired by re-
peated practice of just and of temperate acts) are so far
from being of but little weight that they are the only
things that are of any weight at all. Our actions, theu,
D 2
36
[Book II,
THE NICOMACHEAN
5.
are said to be just and temperate when they are such as
the just or temperate man would do. While the just or
temperate man is not merely he who does such acts, but
he who does them as do the just and temperate. It is
with good reason, then, that we assert that the just man
becomes such by doing just acts, and the temperate man
by doing temperate acts, while that, if he refrain from
such acts, a man will never have even a prospect of be-
coming virtuous. But the many do not act upon this
rule; they rather betake themselves to mere talk about
what is right, deluding themselves into the belief that
they are philosophers, and are consequently upon the
high road to virtue; but, in reality, acting not unlike a
sick man who listens attentively to his physicians, and
then carries out none of their advice. And, as surely as
such treatment will never give a healthy body, so such
philosophy as this will never give a healthy soul.
Let us, after this, inquire what is the genus of virtue.
Now, since there are but three possible kinds of mental
states or conditions, to wit, emotions, capabilities, and
habits, one of these three classes must be the genus of
virtue. As instances of emotions may be named lust,
(29.) anger, fear, pride of strength, envy, deiight, affection, |
hatred, longing, emulation, pity, or in a word any immediate
state of mind followed by a pleasure or by a pain; while a
capability or faculty is that in virtue of which we are said to
be capable of such or such an emotion, as of anger for in-
stance, or of pain or of pity; and a habit is that in virtue of
which we stand in a certain relation towards our emotions
for good or for bad: our relation to anger, for example,
being bad, if we feel anger either too violently or over
slightly, but good if we feel it in moderation. And so, too,
is it with all the other emotions. Now neither the virtues
nor the vices are emotions. For with reference to our
emotions we are not spoken of as good or bad, as we are
with reference to our virtues and our vices. And, again
CHAP. VI.]
37
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
..
with reference to our emotions no praise or blame is ever
given to us. A man, for example, is never praised for
being afraid, or for being angry; nor is a man blamed for
simply feeling anger, but for the manner in which he feels
it. But with reference to our virtues and our vices we
are praised and blamed. Moreover, neither anger nor
fear springs from purpose, whereas the virtues, if not to
be absolutely identified with purpose, most certainly in-
volve such purpose, and imply it. And, again, with
reference to the emotions we say that a man is thus or
thus affected, but with reference to the virtues and the
vices we do not talk of his affection, but of his disposi-
tion. Hence, too, it follows that the virtues and the
vices are not mere capabilities. For we are not said to
be good or bad, nor are we praised or blamed, in that we
are simply capable of feeling such or such an emotion.
And, moreover, our capabilities are either innate or con-
nate, which our virtues and our vices are not, as we have
said before. So that, since the virtues are neither emo-
tions, nor capabilities, it remains that they must be habits.
6. Thus, then, we have ascertained what is the genus of
virtue. It remains to determine its differentia, and to
say wherein it can be distinguished from other habits.
We must premise that every excellence or virtue perfects
that thing of which it is the virtue, and causes it to dis-
charge its especial function well. The special excellence
of the eye, for example, makes the eye good, and perfects
its function; for it is only by the virtue of the eye that
we can see well. So, too, the excellence of the horse
makes it a good horse, swift, and strong to carry its rider,
(30.) and bold to face his enemies. And if this be true, as it
|
is in all cases, it follows that the virtue of man will be
such a habit as will make him a good man, and enable
him to discharge his especial function well. And how
this is to be brought about we have already said; but we
shall make the matter yet clearer if we consider wherein
38
[BOOK II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
exactly it is that the nature of moral virtue consists. In
everything that is continuous, and consequently capable
of division, we can mark off an amount which will be
either more than, or less than, or equal to the remainder;
and can do so either objectively, that is to say with refer-
ence to the matter in question, or subjectively, that is
to say with reference to ourselves. Now that which is
equal is a mean between excess and defect. And by the
mean of the matter I understand that which, as is the
point of bisection in a line, is equally distant from either
extreme, and which is for all persons alike one and the
same.
But by the mean with reference to ourselves I
understand that which is neither too much for us nor too
little, and which consequently is not any one fixed point
which for all alike remains the same. If, for example,
ten pounds be too much and two pounds be too little, we
take as the mean with reference to the matter six pounds,
which itself exceed two pounds by as much as they are.
exceeded by ten. This is what is called a mean in arith-
metical progression. But the mean with reference to
ourselves must not be thus fixed. For it does not follow
that, if ten pounds of meat be too much to eat, and two
pounds be too little, our trainer will therefore order us
six pounds. This may be either too little for him who is
to take it, or too much. For Milo, for example, it would
be too little, while for one who is to begin training it
would be too much. And in running, and in wrestling,
the same rule holds good.
avoid the excess and the
And so, too, all skilled artists
defect, while they seek and
choose the mean, that is to say not the absolute but the
relative mean.
And since it is thus that all skilled know-
ledge perfects its results, by keeping the mean steadily in
view, and by modelling its work upon it, whence it comes
that we are wont to say, at the termination of any good
work, that neither to it can anything be added, nor
!
CHAP. VI.]
39
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
from it can anything be taken away; inasmuch as excess
and defect destroy perfection, while moderation preserves
it; since, then, all good artists, as we have said, always
work with the mean in view, and since virtue is, as also
(31.) is nature, more exact | and higher than is any art, it
follows that virtue also will aim at the mean. And when
I
say virtue I mean moral virtue, for moral virtue is con-
cerned with our emotions, that is to say with our actions;
and in these excess and defect are to be found, and also
moderation. Fear, for example, and confidence, and
desire, and anger, and pity, and, generally, any pleasure
or pain, we can feel both more and less than we ought,
and in either case we feel them not well. But to feel
them when we ought, and at what we ought, and towards
whom we ought, and for the right motive, and as we
ought-in all this lies the mean, and, with the mean, per-
fection; and these are the characteristics of virtue. And
so, too, with reference to our actions, no less than our
emotions, excess and defect are possible, and with them.
consequently moderation. Now virtue is concerned with
our emotions and with our actions. It is in these that
excess is an error, and that defect is blamed as a fault;
while moderation meets with praise and with success, both
of which things are marks of virtue. And hence it is
that all virtue is a mean, in that it aims at that which is
the mean.
Moreover, the forms of wrong are manifold
(for evil is of the infinite, as said the allegory of the Py-
thagoreans, and good of the finite), while of right the
form is but one. Hence the one is easy, the other hard;
easy is it to miss, hard to hit our aim. And from this
again it follows that to vice belong excess and defect, and
to virtue belongs moderation.
One path hath righteousness, but many sin.
Moral virtue, then, is a certain formed state, or habit
40
[Book II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
purpose, which conforms to the relative mean in action,
and which is determined to that mean by reason, or as
the prudent man would determine it. And it is the mean
between two vices, the one of which consists in excess,
and the other in defect. So that the vices sometimes fall
short of what is right in our emotions and in our actions,
and sometimes exceed it, while virtue finds the mean and
chooses it. And consequently in its essence, and by its
(32.) real definition, | virtue is a mean; but as regards perfection
and goodness it is an extreme. It is not every action, how-
ever, or every emotion that allows of moderation. There are
some the
very name of which is sufficient to class them
with the vices; such as are, for instance, malice, shame-
lessness, envy, among our emotions; and among our acts,
adultery, theft, and homicide. For all these things, and
all others such, are blamed in that they are absolutely
bad in themselves, not in that the excess or the defect of
them is bad. In such matters one can never act
rightly, but is always wrong; nor can one talk upon
such occasions of behaving ill, or of behaving well;
as, for example, by committing adultery with whom
one ought, and when one ought, and as one ought;
for to do any one of these things is wrong, whatever be
the circumstances of the case. One might as well insist
upon a mean and an excess and a defect of injustice, and
of cowardice, and of debauchery; so making a mean in
an absolute excess and in an absolute defect, and an
excess in an absolute excess, and a defect in an absolute
defect. Whereas, just as there can be no excess or
defect in temperance, or in bravery,—such a mean being
as it were the indivisible point at the apex of a triangle,
-so, too, in the case of the vices above quoted, neither a
mean nor an excess nor a defect is possible; but under
whatever circumstances such acts are committed they are
wrong. For, to sum up, the mean of an excess or of a
CHAP. VII.]
4I
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
}
7.
defect, no less than the excess or the defect of a mean,
a self-contradictory conception.
is
But we must not rest content with a statement thus
purely general; we must also confirm it by an application
to particulars. In all questions of human action bròad
generalisations are apt to be void of content, and conse-
quently unsatisfactory, the truth rather lying in particular
propositions. For the field of action lies in par-
ticulars, and with these particulars our generalisations
must concord. Our confirmatory instances we will draw
from the recognised catalogue of the virtues. Now,
with regard to the emotions of fear, of pride, and of
strength, bravery is the mean. Of those who run into
excess, he who shows excess of fearlessness has no name
(as, indeed, is the case with many moral states), and he
who runs into excess of pride of strength is foolhardy;
while the coward is he who is either over-fearful, or
deficient in proper confidence. Temperance, again, is a
mean, and debauchery is an excess, not with respect to
(33.) all pains and pleasures, but only to some, and concerned
with pleasures rather than with pains. That a man's
sense of pleasure should be deficient is a case that rarely
or never occurs, and hence such a character has as yet
found no name. But, provisionally, such men may be
called insensible or ascetic. With respect to the giving
and the taking of money, the mean is liberality, the
excess and the defect are prodigality and illiberality.
These vices are contradictorily opposed to each other,
each being an excess of that of which the other is a
defect. For the prodigal runs into excess in the giving
of money, but in taking his due into defect; while the
illiberal man is over-greedy in the receipt of money, and
in giving it falls short of the true mean. We are now
giving a mere summary outline, such being for the
present sufficient for our purpose. Hereinafter these
42
[BOOK II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
(
various states shall be more minutely described. With
regard to money there are also certain other moral states.
Magnificence is a mean (the magnificent man differing
from the liberal in that the latter is concerned with small
matters, the former with great), while its excess is bad
taste and vulgarity; and its defect is pettiness. These
two vices differ from the excess and the defect of libe-
rality; and wherein the difference consists we will here-
after show. And, again, with regard to honour and
dishonour, the mean state is high-mindedness; its excess
is what has been called chirking vanity,' and its defect
is feebleness of spirit. And, in like manner as we said
when we contrasted magnificence with liberality that
liberality differed from it in that it was concerned with
small sums, so, too, is there a virtue which stands in a
similar relation to high-mindedness, dealing with small
honour, while high-mindedness deals with great. For
one can aim at honour both as one ought, and more than
one ought, and less than one ought. He whose craving
for honour is excessive is said to be ambitious, and he who
is deficient in this respect unambitious; while he who
observes the mean has no peculiar name. Indeed, all
these states are really nameless, except that of the
ambitious man, which is known as ambition. Hence it
arises that those who have run into either extreme lay
claim to the mean, as a kind of border march; and
hence, too, we at times call him who is in the mean state
ambitious, and at times again we call him unambitious.
(34) And on some occasions we praise the ambitious man,
and on others again the unambitious man. Our reasons
for this shall be given hereafter; meantime let us complete
our enumeration of the virtues, drawing our distinctions.
by the aid of the method which has guided us all along.
Anger, again, admits of an excess, and of a defect, and
of a mean. These states can hardly be said to have any
;
CHAP. VII.]
43
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
names of their own; but, as we call him gentle who is in
the mean state, we hence will call the mean state itself
gentleness; while, of those who fall into the extremes,
he who errs on the side of excess may be called hasty,
and his vice is hastiness; he whose error is one of defect
spiritless, and the defect in question want of proper
spirit. And there are also three other mean states, which
to some extent resemble one another, and are yet distinct.
They resemble one another in that they are all concerned
with the daily intercourse of men in their speech and
in their actions, and they are distinct in that the one is
concerned with what is truthful in such matters, and the
other two with what is pleasant. And of these two latter
the field of the one is our amusements, that of the other
all the circumstances of our daily life. We must then
place these also in our list, so as to still further strengthen
our conviction that in all cases the mean state is praise-
worthy, the extremes neither right nor praiseworthy, but
blameable. The majority of these states are nameless ;
but we must endeavour, as we have done with others, to
coin a name for each of them, that we may thereby give
precision to our treatise, and render its course intelligible.
With regard to truth then he who is in the mean is the
truthful man, and the mean state itself may be called truth-
fulness, while all pretence to more than our merits is brag-
gartry, and he who advances such pretences is a braggart.
And, on the other hand, all dissimulation of our own powers
is irony, as it is to be seen in the ironical man. And, as
regards the element of pleasure in our amusements, he
who hits the mean is the witty man; and his moral state
is wittiness, while the excess is gross buffoonery, and he
who displays it is a buffoon; and, on the other hand, he
who is deficient in wit is a boor, and his habit is boorish-
ness. And, as regards the other aspect of pleasure in
our life as a whole, he who is pleasant as he ought to be is
!
44
[Book II.
THIE NICOMACHEAN
a friendly man, and the mean state is friendliness, while
he who runs into excess, if it be with no particular object.
in view, is over-polite, but, if it be to serve his own ends,
is a sycophant; while he again who errs on the side of
defect, and who never lays himself out to please others,
is quarrelsome and peevish. There are, moreover, certain
(35) mean states in our emotions, and in the circumstances
with which our emotions are concerned. Shame, for
instance, is not a virtue, and yet he who shows a proper
shame is praised. For in these matters we say that such
a man is in the mean, and that such another runs into
excess, as does the over-bashful man who feels shame at
everything, while he who is deficient in this respect, or he
who never displays shame at all, is called shameless; and
he again who hits the mean is said to show a proper
sense of shame. Lastly, righteous indignation is a mean
between envy and malignity. These are states concerned
with the pleasures and the pains caused by the fortunes
of our neighbours. For he who feels righteous indigna-
tion is grieved when he sees the ungodly in prosperity.
The envious man, on the other hand, runs into excess, and
is grieved at the prosperity of all alike; while the malig-
nant man, so far from feeling pain at the prosperity of
the ungodly, actually rejoices thereat. But concerning all
these states we shall have fitting occasion to speak else-
where; and so too concerning justice, which is a word used
in more than one sense, we will elsewhere distinguish
between its two kinds, and will show how each of them is
a mean. And we will then, in like manner, proceed to the
discussion of the intellectual virtues.
8.
There are, then, three states of mind, to wit, two
vices-that of excess, and that of defect; and one virtue
-the mean; and all these are in a certain sense opposed
to one another; for the extremes are not only opposed to
the mean, but also to one another; and the mean is
CHAP. VIII.]
45
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
opposed to the extremes. For, exactly as that which is
equal is, at the same time, greater as compared with that
which is less, and less as compared with that which is
greater; so, too, the mean states are in excess as com-
pared with their defects, and are defective as compared
with their excesses, both where our emotions are con-
cerned, and where our actions. For the brave man, if he
be compared with the coward, seems foolhardy: and, if
with the foolhardy man, seems a coward; and so, too,
the really temperate man, if he be compared with the
ascetic, appears to be debauched; and, if with the
debauched man, to be ascetic. Similarly, the liberal
man, if contrasted with the illiberal man, will seem a
prodigal; but, if with the prodigal, he will seem illiberal.
And hence those who run into either extreme delight to
contrast themselves with him who is in the mean, by
identifying him with the man who falls into the opposite
extreme. And thus the coward calls the brave man fool-
hardy, and the foolhardy man calls him a coward;
and, with regard to all the other virtues and vices,
(36.) a | similar rule holds good. Virtue, then, and vice are
thus mutually opposed to one another. But still the ex-
tremes are more opposed to each other than they are to
the mean, for they are further removed from one another
than they are from the mean; exactly as the greater differs
more from the less, and the less from the greater, than
does either from that which is exactly equal. And in
some cases, again, the one extreme is more like the mean
than is the other. Foolhardiness, for example, is more
like valour than is cowardice, and prodigality is more like
liberality than is stinginess. Thus, then, it is the two ex-
tremes that are the most unlike each other; and, inasmuch
as the definition of contraries is all such things as are
farthest removed from one another,' it follows that the
further things be removed from one another the more
6
46
[BOOK II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
contrary will they be. And, again, in some cases it is
the defect, and in others the excess that is the more
opposed to the mean. To bravery, for example, it is
not so much foolhardiness, its excess, that is opposed, as
cowardice, its defect; and to temperance it is not so
much asceticism, its defect, that is opposed, as debauchery,
its excess. And there are two reasons why this happens,
one of which lies in the very nature of the matter itself.
For, in that the one extreme is nearer to, and so more
like the mean than is the other, we oppose to the
mean, as its contrary, not so much this extreme as the
other. Since, for example, foolhardiness is more like
courage, and
and is nearer to it than is cowardice, it is cowar-
dice rather than foolhardiness that we contrast with
courage. For that extreme which is the more removed
from the mean would seem to be the more opposed to it.
This, then, is one cause, dependent upon the very nature.
of the matter itself, while there is another which depends.
upon ourselves. For that extreme towards which we are
of our own natures prone to drift would seem to be more
opposed to the mean than is the other. Inasmuch as, for
example, we are of our own nature prone to pleasure, we
drift towards intemperance rather than towards a Spartan
life. And, as we say that that extreme towards which
runs our bent is the more opposed to the mean than
is the other, we therefore hold that intemperance, the
excess, is more opposed to temperance than is asceticism.
And now we have sufficiently shown that moral virtue
is a mean, and how, and that it is a mean between two
(37). vices, that of excess and that of defect, and that it is
a mean in that it aims at a mean in our emotions and in
our actions. And hence we can see that it is no small
task to be good. No small task is it to hit the mean in
each case. It is not, for example, any chance comer, but
only the geometer, who can find the centre of a given
9.
!
CHAP. IX.]
47
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
circle. And, so, too, to get angry is an easy matter, and
in any man's power: or to give away money or to spend
it but to decide to whom to give it, and how large a sum,
and when, and for what purpose, and how, is neither in
every man's power, nor an easy matter. Hence it is that
such excellence is rare and praiseworthy and noble.
Hence, too, he who aims at the mean must, first and fore-
most, keep well away from that extreme which is the
more opposed to the mean. Such is Calypso's counsel
Clear of this surge and spray steer wide thy barque.
For of the two extremes the one is full-fraught with
danger, the other less. Since, then, to keep exactly to
the mid-channel is hard, we must choose the least of two
evils, and, as the saying is, make a losing tack. And this
we shall best do by observing the rule here laid down.
And we must, moreover, consider towards which extreme
it is that we ourselves are the most inclined to drift; for
no two men have the same natural bent. Our test herein
will be the pleasure or the pain which we feel upon each
occasion. And we must strive to drag ourselves in
exactly the counter course, much as they do who straighten
warped timbers. For the further we remove ourselves
from error the nearer shall we come to the mean. But
most of all must we upon all occasions keep a watchful
guard against that which gives us pleasure, and against
Pleasure herself. For we cannot pass judgment upon
her unmoved by her bribes. As, then, the elders of the
people felt towards Helen, so, too, must we feel towards
her, and must upon each such occasion repeat their
sentence. For so shall we put her from us, and be less
liable to sin. And, in brief, to act thus is our best chance.
And yet this is no easy rule, and least
No light task is it to determine how, and
(38.) to hit the mean.
easy to apply.
with whom, and for what, and for how long it is fitting to
48
[Book II.
THE NICOMACHEAN
*
give way to anger. For there are times when we praise
those who show defect of spirit, and call them gentle, and
at times again we exculpate hot temper by the title of
manliness. In any case, however, he who steps but
little wide of the good is not blamed, whether he inclines
towards excess or towards defect. But he is blamed who
strays far wide, for such an one cannot be erring unawares.
And yet it is no easy matter to determine by precise rule
up to what point, and how far, error is free from blame.
For no matter of immediate perception is easy to deter-
mine, and all such questions as this are in their very
nature particular matters of fact, which must be decided
by immediate perception, and not by argument. This
much however is clear, that in all matters the mean state
is the praiseworthy, but that in some cases we must,
if anything, decline towards the excess, and in others.
towards the defect; for thus shall we most easily hit the
mean, and with it that which is our good.
i
!
CHAP. I.]
49
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
III.
I. Now, since virtue is concerned with our emotions and our
actions, and since praise and blame are never given except
to that which is voluntary, while to that which is invo-
luntary pardon is given, and sometimes even pity, it is
perhaps necessary for those who are considering virtue to
exactly distinguish between the voluntary and the invo-
luntary; and such a distinction will further aid legislators.
in the award of honour or of punishment. Now it would
seem that such acts only are involuntary as are done
under compulsion or through ignorance. And that is
done under compulsion the efficient cause of which is
strictly external to the man himself, and is moreover such
that the agent, or, as the case may be, the patient, is not
in any sense an element in it; as, for example, if a whirl-
wind were to carry us anywhere, or men who had us in
their power.
But all such things as are done through
fear of some yet greater evil, or to win some noble end,-
as, for example, were a despot in whose power were our
(39) parents and our | children to impose upon us some dis-
graceful command, which if we obeyed they would be
saved, if we disobeyed they would perish,-with regard
to all such acts as these it can be disputed whether they
are involuntary or voluntary. And a doubt of the same
kind arises when jettison is made in peril of sea; for no
man willingly makes jettison of his merchandise, but, to
save their own lives and the lives of their fellow-voyagers,
all would do so who are in their right senses. Such
actions, then, are of a mixed nature. But they would
seem upon the whole rather to resemble voluntary acts
E
50
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
than involuntary. For, at the exact moment at which
they are done, such acts are choiceworthy; since it is
the occasion of the action with its various concomitant
circumstances that determines in each case the nature of
its result. And, moreover, the terms voluntary and in-
voluntary are predicable of our acts not in the abstract
but only at the moment of action. And in cases such as
these a man at the moment of action does act voluntarily;
for his limbs are the instruments by which the act is done,
and the efficient cause of their motion is his own volition.
And, where the efficient cause lies in ourselves, it is in
our power to do the act, or not to do it. All cases such
as these are, then, voluntary, but in the abstract perhaps
involuntary; for no one would choose any such action for
its own sake, and independently of its results. Now, in
the case of actions such as these, it sometimes happens
that men are praised, when they have undergone disgrace
or pain for the sake of some great and noble end.
blame is given to them when their conduct is the reverse
of this, for none but a bad man would undergo what is
most disgraceful with no noble end, or with but a common-
place end, in view. And in some cases, again, it is not
praise that is given, but rather pardon; as when, for
instance, a man has done what he ought not to have done
through fear of things beyond the power of human nature
to endure, and such that no man could undergo them.
And yet, perhaps, there are some things which a man must
never allow himself to be compelled to do, but must
rather choose death by the most exquisite torments. One
cannot, for example, but smile to hear what it was that
'compelled' Alemæon, in Euripides, to slay his mother.
And, moreover, it is at times difficult to decide which of
two goods is to be preferred, or which of two evils is to be
undergoue; and still more difficult is it to abide by such a
decision. For in the majority of such cases a man antici-
But
СПАР. І.]
5 I
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
pates a something painful, and so is compelled to do a
something disgraceful; and hence it is that praise or
blame is given, accordingly as he has given way to such
compulsion or has not. But, to resume, what is to be
the definition of a compulsory act? Perhaps the best
general definition is that it is an act the efficient cause of
which is purely external, and to which in consequence he
(40.) who does the act contributes nothing. Whereas such
acts as are in the abstract involuntary, but upon a certain
given occasion, and in lieu of such or such an alternative,
choiceworthy, and the efficient cause, moreover, of which
is the agent's own volition, are involuntary, if regarded
abstractedly and in themselves; but upon the occasion in
question, and in lieu of the given alternative, are volun-
tary. And, upon the whole, they rather resemble
voluntary acts than involuntary; for the field of our
action is an aggregate of particular details, and our
treatment of these particular details is voluntary. And
yet it is no easy matter to give rules by which to deter-
mine our choice of alternatives, for in human action every
possible variety of detail is to be found. Were one,
however, to say that things pleasant and things noble act
upon us by compulsion, for that they are motives external
to ourselves, and that yet necessitate such or such a
course of conduct, this would go to make all our actions
compulsory; for it is with these motives in view that
every action of each one of us is done. And, moreover,
those who act under compulsion, and consequently against
their will, do so with pain, while those who act with what is
pleasant or what is noble in view do so with pleasure. And,
moreover, it is ridiculous to say that it is a something exter-
nal to ourselves that is to blame, instead of ourselves who
are too easily enticed by such lures; and that for his noble
acts the man himself is responsible, and for his disgraceful
acts these pleasurable motives. The compulsory, in fine,
F 2
52
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
would seem to be that the efficient cause of which is
purely external, and to which the person so compelled
contributes nothing.
way
Every act done in ignorance is, as such, non-volun-
tary, but is strictly involuntary only when it is followed
by pain, and involves regret. For he who has done such.
or such a thing through ignorance, and who yet is in no
concerned at his act, cannot be said to have done
voluntarily that which he did not know that he was doing,
nor yet to have done involuntarily that at which he feels
no pain. So that, when a man acts from ignorance, if he
subsequently feel regret, he is held to have acted involun-
tarily; but, if he feel no such regret, we will, to distinguish
him, call his act non-voluntary; for, since there is this
difference, it is best that such actions should have a name
of their own. And, again, acting from ignorance would
seem to be entirely distinct from acting in ignorance.
He who is drunk or in a passion is not held to act from
ignorance, but from one of these two causes; but yet he
acts in ignorance, since he knows not what he is doing. And
so, too, every wicked man is in ignorance as to what he
ought to do, and from what to abstain, and it is because of
error such as this that men become unjust and, in a word,
wicked. But yet the term involuntary cannot be applied
merely because a man is in ignorance of what is for hist
good. For ignorance as to what ought to be the object
of his choice does not make a man involuntary, but rather
wicked, as neither does ignorance of moral principles
(for for ignorance of this kind men are blamed),-*
(41) but only ignorance as to the several particular details.
of the action in question-to wit, the persons concerned
in it, and the things. Herein only is it that we pity a
man, and pardon him; for he acts involuntarily who acts
in ignorance of any one of these. Perhaps, then, it were
as well to exactly describe and enumerate these details.
CHAP. I.]
53
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
Firstly, we have the agent; secondly, his action, and that
with which it is concerned; thirdly, the person whom it
affects; fourthly, sometimes, the instrument with which
it is done, as, for example, the weapon; fifthly, its result,
as, for example, preservation of life; sixthly, its manner,
as, for example, in the case of a blow, gently or heavily.
Now of all these details no man could possibly be in
ignorance, unless, indeed, he were mad. Clearly he
could not be ignorant of the agent. For how can a
man be ignorant of his own identity? But of what it
is that he is doing a man might be ignorant; as when,
for example, in conversation men say that a thing escaped
them unawares, or that they did not know that the sub-
ject was forbidden, as happened to Eschylus concerning
the mysteries; or, that, wishing only to show how to
shoot, they actually shot, as in the well-known catapult
accident. And, again, one might take one's son to be an
enemy, as did Merope, or think that a spear which was
really pointed had been buttoned, or that the stone was
only a pumice-stone. Or, again, one might kill a man
when aiming a blow intended to save him; or, lastly,
when wishing only to show how to hit, as in sparring, one
might hit a heavy blow. Now, since ignorance is con-
ceivably possible with regard to each or all of these
details with which the action is concerned, it follows that
he who is ignorant of any one of these is held to have
acted involuntarily, and more especially if he be ignorant
of those which most influence the action itself, and which
are, it would seem, the persons concerned in it, and its
result. In the case, then, of ignorance such as this, we
apply the term involuntary, with the further determina-
tion that the act must give pain, that is to say, that it
must be followed by regret.
That, then, being involuntary which is done under
compulsion, or from ignorance, it would seem that that
54
[Book III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
alone is strictly voluntary the efficient cause of which is
the volition of the agent who knows thoroughly all the
details that are involved in the action. For surely it is
hardly well to say that acts done from anger or from
desire are involuntary. For, in the first place, if this be
so, it follows that no animal can ever act voluntarily,
neither can children. And, secondly, are we to say that
none of our acts done from desire and anger are volun-
tary, or that such of them as are good are voluntary,
such as
are bad involuntary? Evidently the latter
supposition is ridiculous, since in each case the cause is
the same; while, with regard to the former, it is surely
strange to say that an act is involuntary when its impulse.
(42.) is right. And it is right to be angry at certain things,
and also to desire certain things, such as health, for
instance, and knowledge. Besides, it seems that involun-
tary acts give pain, while acts done from desire give
pleasure. And, moreover, if both alike are involuntary,
wherein do errors of reason differ from errors of anger?
Both ought equally to be shunned, and the irrational
passions would seem to be as much a part of human
nature as is the reason. Men's actions may be prompted,
no doubt, by anger and by desire; but it is absurd to
assume that they are therefore involuntary.
2.
|
And now that we have distinguished between the
voluntary and the involuntary, it follows that purpose
must be fully discussed, since it is held to be most closely
connected with virtue, and to be a better criterion of our
character than are even our acts. It is clearly a volun-
tary thing, and yet not co-extensive with the voluntary,
which latter has a wider range. For even children and
beasts have some share in voluntary action, but none in
purpose; and of acts done under sudden impulse we say
that they are voluntary indeed, but yet not done with
purpose. Those who say that it is desire, or anger, or
!
!
:
CHAP. II.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
55
opinion of any sort,
For purpose is not
the wish for that which is good, or an
would seem herein not to say well.
common to the irrational animals with man, as are desire
and anger. And the incontinent man acts under the
influence of desire, but not with purpose; while the self-
restrained man, on the other hand, acts with purpose, but
not under the influence of desire. And, again, our desire
may contradict our purpose, whereas no man can at the
same time be under the influence of two contradictory
desires. And desire, again, has for its object that which
gives us pleasure, and to be deprived of which conse-
quently gives us pain; while the object of purpose is not
of necessity either painful or pleasant. Still less is pur-
pose to be identified with anger. Indeed, acts done from
anger would, least of all acts, seem to be done with pur-
pose. Neither is it to be identified with wish, however
close be the apparent connection between them.
For we
never purpose that which is impossible, and were a man
to avow such a purpose, he would be held to be talking
idly; but we can wish for that which is impossible, as, for
example to live for ever. And, again, wish may have for
its object that which could nohow be effected through our
(43.) own agency, as that such or such an actor or wrestler
should win the prize. No one, however, purposes such
things as these, but only such things as he thinks could
be effected by his own agency. Moreover, wish, as a
rule, has for its object the end of action; purpose the
means thereto. We wish, for example, for health, but
we purpose to take the right means to health; and we
wish for happiness, and avow our wish; but to talk of
happiness as the object of purpose would be a misapplica-
tion of terms, since purpose would upon the whole seem
to be concerned with such things only as are immediately
in our power.
Nor, again, is purpose identical with
opinion. For opinion would seem to be concerned with
56
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
all objects alike, and no less with things immutable and
things impossible than with things in our own power.
And, again, opinion is divided into false and true, and not
into good and bad; while purpose is divided into good
and bad. To sum up, then, neither is purpose in any
way identical with opinion as a whole, nor does anyone
assert for it such an identity. Neither can it be identified
with any specific opinion. For we are held to be of such
or such a character in that our purpose is for good or for
bad, not in that our opinion is such or such. And we
purpose to take a thing, or to avoid a thing, or something
of this kind, while we have an opinion as to what a thing
is, or for whem it is expedient, or in what way; but we
cannot in any way have an opinion to take or to avoid a
thing. And, again, praise is given to purpose in that
its end is right, or, in other words, morally good; while
opinion is praised in so far as it is correct and true. And
we purpose those things of which we are most certain
that they are good, but we exercise opinion upon those
things which we do not exactly know. Neither does it
seem that the best purposes and the best opinions always
go together, but rather that there are some men whose
opinion is more than usually valuable, but who are led by
vice to purpose that which is not right. Neither does it
matter whether an opinion of any sort precedes our
purpose or accompanies it: for this is not the question.
which we are considering, but rather whether purpose be
identical with opinion of any kind. What, then, is the
genus, and what the essential definition of purpose, since
it is no one of these things? Voluntary it clearly is, but
yet all voluntary action is not done with purpose. May
we not perhaps say that the object of purpose is all such
voluntary action as involves a previous deliberation ?
For all purpose involves a process of conscious reasoning,
that is to say, an analysis of an end into its means. Nay,
CHAP. III.]
57
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
$
more, the very etymology of the word 'purposed' would
seem to indicate a previous rejection of other alternatives.
3. Now do men deliberate upon all matters alike?
That is to say, does any matter whatever admit of de-
(44.) liberation, | or, in some cases, is deliberation impossible?
Of course, one would not call that fit matter of delibera-
tion about which a fool or a madman would deliberate,
but only that about which he would deliberate who is in
possession of his right reason. About things of necessity
immutable no one ever deliberates; as, for example, how
he is to alter the order of the universe, or how to express
as an integral the ratio between the side of a square and
its diagonal; which two lines cannot but be incommen-
surate. Nor does any one deliberate about such pro-
cesses as are invariably uniform, whether from necessity,
or from natural law, or from any other cause; as, for
example, how to alter the season of the solstice, or the
hour of day-break; nor about matters altogether vari-
able, as how to bring about dry weather or rainy; nor
about matters of chance; as, for example, how to find a
treasure; nor about all and every human matter without
exception, no one of the Lacedæmonians, for example,
ever deliberating as to how the Scythians can best be
governed :--for, in all and each of these cases, the matter
in question is quite out of our own power. But we de-
liberate about such matters only as our own agency can
effect; and which are, indeed, the only matters which
now remain. For the commonly received enumeration of
efficient causes is nature, and necessity, and chance, and,
lastly, reason, that is to say all human agency. And
men, in each case, deliberate about that alone which is in
their own individual power. And, moreover, about such
branches of knowledge as are definite and absolute there
is no deliberation; as, for example, about writing, for we
are never in doubt as to how a letter ought to be formed.
53
[Book III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
But about all such matters as our own agency can effect,
but which cannot always be effected in the same way,
-about these we do deliberate; as, for example, about
those matters which are treated of by medicine, and by
political economy, and about navigation more than about
training, since it is less a matter of definite rule, and
so forth in all other cases; while in the case of an art
we have to deliberate more than in that of a science,
since in it many more matters of doubt and difficulty
arise. Deliberation, then, takes place in those matters
where only general rules can be laid down, and in
which the issue is, in each particular case, uncertain,
and so incapable of definite rule or prediction. And, for
matters of great importance, we associate with us others
as our fellow-counsellors, since we have not sufficient
confidence in our own powers of judgment. And, again,
we do not so much deliberate about what end to aim at,
as about which are the best means to such or such an end.
A physician, for example, never deliberates as to whether
be shall or shall not cure his patient; or an orator as to
(45.) whether he shall or shall not persuade his audience; |
or a statesman as to whether he shall or shall not legis-
late with public security in view; nor, in a word, does any
one ever deliberate as to what end he shall adopt. All
those who deliberate, having first proposed to themselves
some definite end, proceed to consider how, that is to say
by what means, it is to be effected. And, should it
appear that there are more means to it than one, they
then consider by which it will be most easily and best
effected; but, should there be but one, they then consider
how this will effect it, and by what means it itself is to be
effected; until, at last, they come to the prime efficient
cause, which constitutes the last step in their investiga-
tion. For he who deliberates would seem to go through
a process of investigation, or analysis, conducted after the
+
CHAP. III.]
59
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
fashion we have described, and not unlike the analysis of
a geometrical problem. Indeed, although all investiga-
tion is not deliberation, as we can see in the case of a
mathematical investigation, yet all deliberation is a kind
of investigation,' wherein the last term in our analysis of
ends into their means forms the first term in the pro-
duction of ends by their means. When, in deliberation,
men come to a means which is out of their power, they
abandon it to seek for another; as, for example, when, to
gain a certain end, money is required, but money cannot
possibly be procured. But, should the means be possible,
they then endeavour to take them. By 'possible' is to
be understood that which our own agency can effect.
Even that which is effected by our friends is, in a way,
effected by ourselves: for such matters really begin with
ourselves. At times our question is, what instrument is
to be used; and at times, again, which is the right
method of its use. And so, too, in other cases, at times
our inquiry is, by means of what is such or such an end to
be attained; and at times, again, in what manner, or by
whose assistance. It would seem, then, as has been said,
that man's actions originate in himself, that deliberation
is concerned with those things alone that we ourselves
can do, and that all our actions have an ulterior end in
view; so that it is not the end which is the object of
deliberation, but the means to that end. Nor do we ever
deliberate when we have come to a particular question
of fact. We do not, for example, deliberate whether
this be a loaf, or whether it has been properly baked.
For upon such matters perception passes an immediate
judgment. And, were everything alike to be matter
of deliberation, the chain of analysis would be infi-
nite. Thus, then, the object of deliberation and the
1 Continue the parenthesis from Shrnσis down to the end of the sen-
tence in the next line, ending with yevéoel.
60
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
6
object of purpose will be identical, save in so far as the
latter is, ipso facto, distinguished from the former, in that
we call that purposed' which has, after due deliberation,
been preferred to all other alternatives. In fine, a man
ceases to deliberate as to how he is to act, when he has iden-
tified the efficient cause of the desired end with himself;
that is to say, with that faculty in himself which takes the
lead in action, or which purposes to take a certain set of
means in preference to all others. Our meaning is clearly
illustrated by the old constitutions described in the
poems of Homer, and in which the Kings declared their
(46.) purpose | to the Commons. Since, then, the object of
purpose is a something in our power, upon which we have
exercised deliberation, and the result of which is the
gratification of a desire, it follows that purpose is a desire
for a something in our own power, coupled with an inves-
tigation into its means. For, after an investigation into
the means to the end which we desire, we choose some
one particular set of means, and so make our desire for an
end accord with our analysis of that end into its means.

4.
Here, then, we will close our sketch of purpose, having
stated what is its object-matter, namely, the means to
such ends as we desire.
We have already said that the object of wish is the
end of action. But, while some think that its object is
that which is objectively and truly good, others think that
it is only that which subjectively seems good to ourselves.
Now those who assert that the object of wish is that which
is objectively good, cannot avoid the conclusion that that
cannot really be the object of wish for which he wishes
whose choice is faulty. For, if it be the object of wish,
it ought, on their showing, to be good; whereas it may,
perhaps, in such or in such a case, be bad. And those,
again, who assert that the object of wish is only that which
subjectively seems good, must also admit that it is not the
CHAP. V.]
61
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
5
5.
natural fitness of things, but rather each man's individual
fancies, that determine the object of his wish. And, in-
asmuch as each man has his own point of view, it follows.
that of two contradictories each may equally be the ob-
ject of wish. And, since neither of these conclusions com-
mend themselves to us, is it not perhaps best to say that
the abstract and true object of wish is that which is truly
good, while for the individual the object of his wish is that
which he holds to be good. So that, while the good man
wishes for what is truly good, the bad man may wish for
anything, whether good or bad; exactly as, when our
bodies are sound, that diet is healthy for us which is
truly healthy, while, when they are diseased, sometimes one
thing is healthy for us, sometimes another. And in like
manner with things bitter, and things sweet, and things
hot, and things heavy, and indeed with all such things as
in any way affect us, the same rule holds good. For it
is the man whose condition, whether moral or bodily, is in
each case perfect who in each case judges rightly, and at
once perceives the truth. For, as our conditions vary,
so do various things seem to us good or pleasant. And
herein it is that the perfect man may be said to differ most
widely from all others, in that in all such cases he at once
perceives the truth, being, as it were, the rule and mea-
sure of its application. But the majority of mankind
would seem to be beguiled into error by pleasure, which,
not being really a good, yet seems to be so. So that they
indiscriminately choose as good whatsoever gives them
pleasure, while they avoid all pain alike as evil.
Inasmuch, then, as the end of action is the object of
wish, while the means to that end are the object of de-
liberation and of purpose, the actions into which these
(47.) means enter will be done | with purpose, and will conse-
quently be voluntary. And it is with these means to
such ends as we desire that all acts of virtue are concerned.
62
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
And consequently virtue is in our own power, and, by parity
of reasoning, so is vice. For, where it is in our power
to do a thing, it is equally in our power to abstain from
doing it; where refusal is in our power, assent is equally
80. So that if to do such or such a thing, which is noble,
be in our power, to abstain from it, which is disgraceful,
will be equally in our power; and if to abstain from doing
such or such a thing, which is noble, be in our power, then
to do it, which is disgraceful, will be equally in our power.
And if, in a word, it be in our power to do what is noble
and what is disgraceful, it is equally in our power not to do
it. Or, in other words, it is in our power to be either good
men or bad. It rests then with ourselves whether we are
to be virtuous or vicious. To say that
No man of his own will bears evil plight,
Or prosperous plight against his will enjoys,-
seems partly false and partly true. For against his own
will no man can be happy, but all vice is voluntary. On
any other assumption, we shall have to contradict all that
we have been saying, and to assert that man is not the
efficient cause of his own actions, and their sire, as he is
of his offspring. But if we are satisfied with our present
conclusions, and can refer our actions to no causes beyond
such as are in our own control, it follows that our actions,
since their causes are in our own control, are themselves in
our own control, and so voluntary. And to this witness would
seem to be borne, no less by each man in his own life,
than by legislators who make life their study. For they
afflict with pains and penalties those who do what is wicked,
save only where they have done it under compulsion, or
from an ignorance for which they cannot be held respon-
sible; while to those who do what is noble they hold out.
honour as a reward, with a view to encourage the latter and
to check the former. But where a thing is not in our own
CHAP. V.]
63
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
power, and so not voluntary, no encouragement can make
us do it, since it is but idle labour to endeavour to per-
suade a man not to feel heat, or pain, or hunger, or any-
thing else of such a sort. For, spite of all persuasion, we
cannot but be thus affected. Nay, more, for our very
ignorance they punish us, if that ignorance seem to be
self-caused; double penalties, for example, being affixed
to crimes done in drunkenness, inasmuch as they primarily
(48.) originate in the volition of the agent. | For it was in his
own power not to get thus drunk, and it was his drunken-
ness that was the cause of his ignorance. And, moreover,
they punish those who act in ignorance of any particular
enactment of the laws which ought to be known, and
which it is not difficult to learn; and, indeed, in all cases
of ignorance whatsoever, where the ignorance appears to
be the result of negligence; since it was in the man's
power to avoid such ignorance, in that he was perfectly
able to give the matter all due attention. But, it may
be urged, what if a man's character be such that he is in-
capable of this attention? To which it may be answered,
that, for their becoming such, men are themselves re-
sponsible, in that they live dissolutely; in brief, that men
bring upon themselves their own injustice or intempe-
rance, by wrong-doing, or by passing their time in
drunkenness and other such follies. For, in brief, specific
acts produce in their agent a correspondent character, as
is clear from the case of those who are in training for a
trial of strength, or for any other performance, and who
continuously practise the particular act required. To be
ignorant, then, that all habits are formed by the practice
of particular acts, shows gross want of common sense.
Indeed, it is absurd to suppose that a man should per-
severe in unjust acts, and yet not wish to be unjust, or
in intemperate acts, and yet not wish to be intemperate.
But if a man persists in a course of conduct which cannot
64
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
but make him unjust, being at the same time well aware
that such will be its effect, he will become unjust of his own
free will. It does not, however, follow that, should he so
wish, he will cease to be unjust, and will become just again,
any more than that a sick man can wish himself back into
good health. Let us, for example, suppose the case of a
man who has brought on a sickness of his own free will,
by incontinent living, and by contempt of his physicians.
It would once have been in his power to have escaped this
sickness, which it no longer is, now that he has lost his
self-control; exactly as, when the stone has once left our
hand, it is no longer in our power to recall it; although
it none the less was at first in our power either to pick' it
up or not, or to throw it or not, as we chose,—our own
volition being the efficient cause. And so, too, with the
unjust man, and with the intemperate,-originally it was
in their power not to become such, and consequently they
are such of their own free will. But, now that they have
once become such, it is no longer possible for them not to
be such. And, indeed, not only are the vices of our souls
voluntary, but in some cases (those, that is to say, where
we award censure for them) even the vices of our bodies.
No one, for example, censures those who are mis-shapen
by nature, but only those who have become so from want
of proper exercise and care. And so, too, with all weak-
ness and mutilation. No one, for example, would cast it
in a man's teeth that he was blind by nature, or from
(49.) sickness, or from a blow, but would rather pity him;
while all would censure him who had lost his sight from
what is known as drunkard's blindness,' or from any
other intemperate living. In a word, then, we are cen-
sured for such bodily vices as it is in our power to avoid,
and not for such as are out of our own power. And, if
'
'For Baλeîv read λaßeîv with Argyropylus, Lambinus, Coraes, and
others.
CHAP. V.]
65
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
this be so, then, of all other vices whatsoever, it follows
that those for which we are censured will be in our own
power. But suppose it be urged that, although all men
aim at what they conceive to be good, they yet are not
masters of their own conceptions, but that, as is each
man's character, such is his conception of the true end of
action. To this it may be replied that, if a man be in any
sense whatever responsible for his moral condition, in that
same sense will he also be responsible for his conception
of the true end; but that, if he be not so responsible,
then no man can be held responsible for the evil which he
does, but must be held thus to act through ignorance of
the true end, and thinking by such means to attain the chief
good in other words, that it is not our own choice which
determines the end at which we aim, but that a man must
be born with what may be called a moral sight, by which
he will judge rightly and will choose that which is truly
good; and that he alone on whom nature has bestowed
this gift in full, is of noble nature. For, where nature has
given to a man in its full perfection and beauty the
greatest and noblest of her gifts, which no man can
either get or learn from another, but such as nature has
given it him so only must have it, there surely we have
perfect and true natural nobility. But, if all this be true,
how can it be shown that virtue is any more voluntary
than is vice? For, for both alike, for the good man no
less than for the bad, their conception of the true end of
life is given and determined either by nature or by some
other agency, and they act, whether for evil or for good,
in that they take certain means with reference to this.
end. Whether, then, each man's conception of the end,
whatever that may be, be not determined for him by
nature, but be a something dependent upon himself; or
whether our conception of the end be determined for us
by nature, while virtue is voluntary in that the good
F
66
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
man voluntarily takes the means to this end; in neither
case can vice be shown to be less voluntary than is virtue.
For the bad man no less than the good possesses free
agency in his actions, even if not in his choice of the end.
If then the virtues be voluntary, as we assert,-for we can-
not but to some extent contribute to the formation of our
(50.) habits, and, according as is our character, such or such
is the end which we propose to ourselves,-the vices also
will be voluntary; for of both virtues and vices the
same reasoning holds good.
Thus, then, as regards all the virtues alike, we have
roughly described their genus, and asserted that they are.
mean states, and also more definitely that they are habits;
and we have stated the acts by which they are produced,
and have said that they of their own nature tend to make
us repeat these same acts; and, further, that they depend
upon ourselves, or are in a word voluntary, and that they
are regulated as right reason orders. But our actions
and our habits are not equally voluntary. For, provided
we in each case know the details, we are masters of our
actions from the beginning up to the very end. But, in the
case of our habits, we are only masters of their com-
mencement,—each particular little increase being as
imperceptible as in the case of bodily infirmities. But
yet our habits are voluntary, in that it was once in our
power to adopt or not to adopt such or such a course of
conduct.
We will resume, then, the detailed account of the
individual virtues, saying what they are, and with what
they are concerned, and how; and so will at the same
time make it clear how many they are in number. And,
first. let us treat of bravery. That it is a mean state,
concerned with fear and confidence, has already been
6. said. What we fear is manifestly things terrible, or, to
use a more general phrase, things evil; whence comes the
CHAP. VI.]
67
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
3
Now we
of reputa-
a
definition of fear as the anticipation of evil.
fear evil of every kind; as, for instance, loss
tion, poverty, disease, loss of friends, death. But with
all these the brave man is not held to be concerned. For
there are some things which a man ought to fear: to do
so is noble, and not to do so is disgraceful. Loss of
reputation is a fair instance. He who fears this is a good
man, and shows a proper shame, while he who fears it not
is brazenfaced. But yet some people call even such a
man as this brave, thus transferring the term because he
has a certain resemblance to the brave man; for the brave
man also is a fearless character. Poverty, of course,
man ought not to fear, or disease, or, indeed, anything
that is not the result of vice, and for which he is not
responsible. And he who is fearless of these things is
not, on that account, a brave man, although we speak of
him as brave, in virtue of his resemblance to the brave
For some there are who, although cowards amid
the dangers of war, are yet of liberal spirit, and throw
away their money with a good courage. Neither is a
(51.) man a coward | if he fears insult and injury for his
children and his wife, or envy for himself, or anything of
a similar sort; nor is he brave if he be of good courage
when about to be flogged through the streets. With what
kind, then, of terrible things is the brave man concerned?
With the greatest, surely; for there is no one who will
with equal fearlessness face what is dreadful. Now of all
things death is the most terrible, for it is an absolute
end, beyond which popular opinion assigns to the dead
man neither good nor evil. But yet it is not with every
form of death that the brave man would seem to be
concerned, as with death at sea, for instance, or with death.
by disease. With what form of death, then, is he
concerned? Surely with death under the noblest condi-
tions. And such is death in war; for war involves the
man.
F 2
68
[Book III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
7.
greatest and noblest of all risks. Testimony is borne to
this by the rewards which are given in free states and by
absolute rulers. He then alone will strictly be called
brave who is fearless of a noble death, and of all such
chances as come upon us with sudden death in their
train. And such especially are the chances of war. Not
but that in sickness and at sea the brave will be fearless,
although not in the same manner as are mariners. For
the brave will have given up all hope of life, and will feel
grief and indignation at such a death, while experience.
will make the mariners of good heart. And, moreover,
we play the brave man where either our prowess can be
shown, or our death will be noble; neither of which is
the case in such a loss of life as are these.
Not only is that which is fearful not for all men the
same, but we also recognise some things as being too
fearful for man to bear. A danger of this kind will be
fearful to anyone who is in his right senses, while things
fearful in the ordinary course of human nature are some
greater and some smaller, some more fearful and some
less. And of things that inspire confidence the same rule
holds good. Now the brave man, as judged by the ordi-
nary standard, is never terrified out of his self-possession.
He will consequently fear all things of this kind, but he
will none the less face them as he ought, and as reason
orders, having in view that which is beautifully good and
noble, which is the end of all virtue. Now one may
fear dangers of this kind more than one ought and less,
and one may moreover fear that which is not fearful as if
it were such. Our error sometimes consists in fearing
where no fear is, or sometimes in showing our fear as we
ought not, or sometimes in showing fear at a moment
when we ought not, or in something else of this kind.
(52.) And similarly errors arise with respect to those things |
that inspire confidence. He then who with the right
CHAP. VII.]
69
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
end in view faces what he ought, and fears it, and does
so as he ought, and when he ought, and who in a similar
manner faces with confidence that which ought to be so
faced, he is brave. For the brave man both endures and
acts as is right and as reason orders. Now the end in
view in each particular act will be the end which is con-
formable to the habit of which that act is a manifestation.
To the brave man his bravery is a noble thing. Such
then will be the end which his bravery as a whole has in
view; for in every case the attributes of a habit are
determined by its end. And consequently it will be for
the sake of that which is noble that the brave man faces
danger, and achieves his acts of bravery. Of those who
run into excess, he whose excess takes the shape of
absolute fearlessness has no name (we have already said
that there are many moral states with no names of their
own), but he would be a simple madman, or insensible to
all pain, were he to fear nothing, neither the earthquake
nor its tidal wave, as we are told of the Celts. On the
other hand he who shows excessive confidence in matters
really fearful is foolhardy. The foolhardy man would
seem to be a braggart, and to lay claim to a courage which
he has not. As then the brave man bears himself in
what is fearful, so he wishes to seem to bear himself, and
therefore, where he can at all do so, he imitates the brave
man. And hence the majority of such men are blus-
terers; for, although they are over-confident where there is
a semblance of danger, they cannot be brought to face
what is really terrible. He, again, whose fear is excessive
is a coward, and upon cowardice it is consequent to fear
what we ought not, and to fear it as we ought not, and to
fall into all such other faults. The coward is deficient
in confidence, but he is most easily detected by his inabi-
lity to bear pain. He is moreover but of faint hope, for
he fears all things alike. Quite other is the brave man :
70
[Book III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
for confidence betokens good hopes. Thus, then, both
the coward, and the foolhardy man, and the brave man,
are concerned with the same matters, but stand to them
in a different relation. For the coward and the foolhardy
commit errors both of excess and of defect, while the
brave man observes the mean, and acts as he ought. And
the foolhardy are headlong and zealous before the danger,
but in the midst of danger they hold aloof; while the
brave are keen in action, but before the crisis are self-
possessed.
As then has been said, bravery is a mean state con-
cerned with things that inspire confidence and with things.
fearful, under the circumstances already described, and
(53) leading us to choose danger and to face it, either because
to do so is noble, or because not to do so is base.
But to
court death as an escape from poverty, or from love, or
from some grievous pain, is no proof of bravery, but
rather of cowardice. For to fly from trouble is mere
effeminacy, and such a man does not face death because
it is noble to do so, but merely that he may escape from
8. present evil. True bravery, then, is such as has been
described. But there are also five other forms of bravery
generally recognised. First among these we will describe
what has been called political bravery, for it is the most
like to the true. It is so called because citizens would
seem to face danger under influence of the penalties and
disgraces which the laws inflict, and of the honours which
they hold out. And hence it is that they would seem to
be bravest among whom cowards are infamous, and the
brave are held in honour. Homer makes his heroes such;
as Diomed, for instance, and Hector,-
Polydamas will of all men be first
To heap reproach upon me;
and Diomed, too, says―
CHAP. VIII.]
71
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
(
1
Hector will boast among the Trojan lords,-
"Tydides by my hand———.'
This kind of courage is most like that described above,
in that it has its origin in virtue; for it arises from a
proper shame and from a desire to win what is noble, to
wit honour, and to avoid stigma, which is disgraceful.
Along with bravery of this kind may be classed the
courage of those who are forced by their officers into
battle, but which is however inferior to it in that they act
thus not from a proper sense of shame but rather from
fear, and that what they desire to avoid is not so much.
disgrace as pain. For they who are set over them drive
them into action, as did Hector,-
Whomso aloof from fight I cowering find,
Him hounds shall surely rend.
And they who post cowards among the ranks of the
veterans, and then have them beaten if they give ground,
act in a similar way; as also do they who place their lines
immediately in front of a trench, or in some similar
position. For they all force their troops into action;
whereas our bravery ought not to be forced, but to be a
free act prompted by desire of what is noble. Secondly,
experience of certain particular details would seem to be
a species of bravery. And hence it was that Socrates
held that bravery was a species of knowledge. This
kind of experience will, according to the circumstances
(54.) of the case, be possessed by | various people, and in war
by professed soldiers. For war would seem to have many
empty terrors, which they, most of all men, have learned
to understand; and hence they appear by comparison
brave, in that their fellows do not know how slight the
danger is. And, moreover, their experience enables them.
better than others to inflict wounds and themselves to
remain unwounded; for they are skilled in the use of
72
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
arms, and have moreover such as are best adapted to
wound the foe and to protect the wearer.
Such men,
then, when they fight, are like armed troops contending
with unarmed, or professional wrestlers with amateurs.
For in contests of this kind it is not the bravest who make
the best fight, but those who are strongest, and in
best condition. Nay, more, even professional soldiers.
will sometimes play the coward, when the danger is too
great for them, and when they are short in numbers and
deficiently equipped; for then they are the first to take
to flight; while the volunteer contingent dies at its post,
as happened in the battle near the temple of Hermes.
For, for the latter, flight is disgraceful, and death is
preferable to safety gained at such a price; while the
former originally faced the risk trusting to their superior
strength, and when they learn their weakness take to
flight, fearing death rather than disgrace. Far other is
the brave man.
Anger, too, has sometimes been ascribed
to bravery. For, because the brave are also high-spirited,
it has been held that they too are brave who in a fit of
anger rush like wild beasts against those who have wounded
them. Anger is indeed the keenest of all spurs to risk.
Whence says Homer,
Strength to his wrath she gave;
and again,
His might and wrath she roused;
and again,
Up through his nostrils surged the bitter wrath;
and again,
His blood boiled over;
for all such phrases as these would seem to indicate the
CHAP. VIII.]
73
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
;
(55.) uprising and onset of anger. Now the truly brave act.
as they do for the sake of what is noble, and in their
actions anger has it proper share, whereas beasts act from
fear of pain. It is because they have been wounded, or
because they are afraid; for, if they are safe in a wood
or in a swamp, they never commence the attack. The
fact that they are driven by pain or by passion to rush
against danger, foreseeing none of its terrible results,
does not make them brave. From such a point of view
even an ass would be brave when it is hungry, for how-
ever much it be beaten it will not leave its pasturage.
And adulterers, too, are led by their lust to do many
deeds of daring. Beasts, then, are not to be accounted
brave when they are driven by pain or anger to encounter
danger. This quasi-courage of anger is of all kinds of
courage the most physical; but, if there be added to it a
proper purpose, that is to say a good motive, it becomes
identical with true bravery. When men are provoked to
anger they feel pain, and when they revenge themselves
they feel pleasure. But those who engage in battle with
these motives show pugnacity rather than bravery, for
they do not act with that which is noble in view, nor as
reason orders, but are led by passion. They therefore to
a certain extent only resemble the truly brave. Neither
ought those who are over-sanguine to be called brave, for
their only confidence in danger is that they have con-
quered many enemies, and often. They resemble the
brave, however, in that, like them, they are full of confi-
dence. But the brave are confident from the reasons we
have given above; the sanguine because they think that
they are the stronger, and that they will meet with no return
of injury. (Drunken men act in much the same way,
for they too become full of confidence.) But, when the
result proves other than they had hoped, then they take
refuge in flight; whereas the brave man, as we have seen,
74
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
ought rather to face that which, as judged by a human
standard, is fearful, and which seems such, because
to do so is noble, and not to do so is disgraceful.
And so, too, it shows more bravery to be fearless
and untroubled in sudden terror, than in foreseen;
for to act thus is more the result of a settled habit,
or in other words is less the result of previous prepara-
tion. For, where a man can anticipate danger, he might
perhaps choose it after some reflection and reasoning; but
towards sudden danger the bravery which we exhibit is
the immediate result of our character. They, too,
appear to be brave who are ignorant of the presence of
danger. Their bravery is but little removed from that
of the sanguine, but yet inferior to it, inasmuch as, unlike
(56.) it, it involves no self-confidence. And hence the
sanguine will stand their ground for awhile; whereas
they who have been deceived as to the extent of the
danger, as soon as they learn that it is other than they
had suspected, take to flight; as did the Argives when
they encountered the Spartans whom they had taken to
be Sicyonians. Thus, then, we have said what kind of
men are the brave, and also what kind of men are they
who are wrongly reputed such.
9.
Now, although bravery is concerned both with confi-
dence and with fear, it is not equally concerned with each,
but has rather to do with things fearful. For he who is
untroubled amidst these, and who bears himself as he
ought concerning them, he is to be called brave, rather
than is he who bears himself as he ought in circum-
stances that inspire confidence. Men are indeed called
brave, as we have already said, for withstanding what is
painful. And hence bravery involves pain as its conse-
quent, and is with justice praised; for it is more difficult
to withstand what is painful than to abstain from what is.
pleasant. Not but that the end of bravery would seem
CHAP. X.]
75
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
to have a pleasure of its own, although obscured by the
circle of its environments, as is the case also in gymnastic
contests. For, for the boxers, the end, having which in
view they contend, to wit the chaplet and the honour,
has a pleasure of its own. But the blows which they
receive, and the toils which they undergo, must needs be
grievous and painful to them, since, after all, they are
but flesh and blood. And, since they have many troubles
of this kind to undergo, the true end for which they
labour, being in itself but a small thing, seems at first sight
to have no pleasure of its own. Since, then, with re-
gard to courage the same rule holds good, it will follow
that death and wounds will be grievous to the brave
man, and be sorely against his will; but that he will
none the less face them, because to do so is noble, and
not to do so is disgraceful. And the more that he
possess every virtue, and the happier that he be, the more
grievous will death be to him. For to such a man life is
of the highest worth, and yet he consciously deprives him-
self of the very greatest goods: and to act thus is a
grievous task. He is, however, none the less to be held
brave on this account, and perhaps even more so, in that
he chooses war's noblest prize in place of all other worldly
goods. All virtuous acts, indeed, are not as a rule plea-
sant, save only in so far as their true end is attained.
Nor does it perhaps of necessity follow that it is men
such as we have described who make the best soldiers,
(57.) and not rather men with less | bravery, and with naught
IO.
else about them good. For such men are ready to
face all kinds of danger, and for a little lucre will barter
their lives.
About bravery, then, thus much suffices, for, from
what we have said, it is not difficult to shape an outline
of its nature.
After bravery we will consider temperance, for these
:
1
76
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
two would seem to be the virtues of the irrational portions
of our soul. Now that temperance is a mean state con-
cerned with pleasures we have already said; for with
pains it is less concerned, or at least not equally; its field
being, in fact, identical with that in which intemperance
manifests itself. It remains, then, to determine with
what kind of pleasures it is concerned. And, first, there
is a clear distinction between the pleasures of the body on
the one hand, and those on the other of the soul, such as
are the love of honour and the love of learning. For,
while the ambitious man and the student each takes plea-
sure in his special object of pursuit, it is yet not his body
that is in any way thereby affected, but rather his under-
standing. And those who are concerned with pleasures
of this kind we neither call temperate, nor yet intempe-
rate. And the same holds true of all pleasures that are
not distinctly bodily. For those who are fond of listen-
ing to long stories, and who love the sound of their own
voice, and who waste their days upon trifles, we call
idlers, indeed, but yet not intemperate; neither do we
call those intemperate who are grieved at the loss of
money, or of friends. Temperance, then, is concerned
with the bodily pleasures; but yet not with all of even
these. For those who take pleasure in the presentations of
sight, as in colours, and in outlines, and in paintings, are
neither called temperate, nor yet intemperate, although
it would none the less seem to be possible to take pleasure.
in such things as one ought, and more than one ought,
and less than one ought. And of the presentations of the
hearing the same rule holds good. For no one calls in-
temperate those who take an excessive pleasure in music,
or in acting, nor calls those again temperate who take in
such things the pleasure which they ought. Nor do we
call those intemperate to whom the sense of smell gives
pleasure, unless it be indirectly. For we do not call
CHAP. X.]
77
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
i
those intemperate who take pleasure in the smell of fruit,
or of roses, or of incense, but rather those who take plea-
(58.) sure in the smell of unguents and of dainty dishes; for
in the smell of these it is that the intemperate rejoice,
because they are by it reminded of the objects of their de-
sire. One may indeed observe that all men as a rule,
when hungry, take a certain pleasure in the smell of
food. But to persistently take pleasure in such things is
a mark of intemperance, for it is only to the intemperate
man that these things are objects of desire. Nor do even
animals derive any pleasure from these senses, except in-
directly. For it is not in the scent of the hare that the
hounds rejoice, but in the eating of it,-it being the scent
by which they perceived its presence. Nor does the lion
rejoice in the lowing of the ox, but rather in the devour-
ing of it, it being the lowing by which he perceived that
the ox was near, and in which he consequently seems to
rejoice. Nor, in like manner, does he rejoice because he
sees a deer or a wild goat, or because he comes upon its
traces, but because he knows that he will have food to
eat. Temperance, then, and intemperance are concerned
with pleasures of that kind in which even the animals
share, and which consequently appear slavish and brutal;
and these are the pleasures of touch and of taste. And
yet of taste in its highest form the intemperate seem
to make but little or no use. For to the taste belongs
the distinction of flavours, which is the task of those who
taste wines and who season dishes. But in flavours, as
such, the intemperate take but little pleasure, or rather
none at all, their pleasure being rather in that enjoyment
which is to be derived from eating, and drinking, and
venery, and which is entirely a matter of touch. And
hence it was that a certain man who was a glutton prayed
for a gullet longer than that of a crane, since it was the
actual contact of the food from which he derived his plea-
78
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
sure. The pleasure, then, with which intemperance is
concerned is that of the most widely spread among our
senses, and would seem with justice to be held in disgrace,
since it belongs to us in that we are animals, not in that
we are men. And to rejoice in pleasures of this kind,
and to love them better than all others, is brutal. For
the most liberal of all the pleasures of touch must be ex-
cluded, such as the pleasures which in the gymnasium are
given by the friction, and by the warmth. For the pecu-
liar sense of touch from which the intemperate man de-
rives his pleasure is not spread over his entire body, but
(59.) is restricted to | certain portions of it. Amongst our
I I. desires, again, some would seem to be common to all men,
and others to be peculiar and acquired. The desire for
food, for instance, is natural to man; for every one who
is in wart either of meat or of drink feels a desire for it,
and sometimes a man feels a desire for both at once; and
he who is young, and in the prime of his strength, feels,
says Homer, the desires of sex. But it is not all men
alike, nor is it even always the same men, who desire this
or that particular kind of meat or drink, or who are ena-
moured of this or of that particular style of beauty. And
hence, to this extent at least, our desires are clearly our
own, and peculiar to ourselves. Not but that, however,
such particular modifications of desire have in them a
something natural. For different men take pleasure in
different things, and there are some things in which all
men alike take more pleasure than in aught else. Now
in the matter of their natural desires but few men fall
into error, and that error always takes the one shape of
excess. For to eat or to drink what is put before us until
we are filled to repletion is to exceed what is natural in
the matter of amount, inasmuch as our natural desires
extend only to the satisfaction of our actual wants. And
hence men who act thus are called cormorants' (which
CHAP. XI.]
79
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
'
word etymologically signifies belly-mad'), inasmuch as
they fill themselves beyond all bounds. And such do
they become who are of a disposition excessively slavish.
But in the matter of their own peculiar and especial
pleasures many men fall into error, and in many ways.
For a man may have given to him the phrase over-fond
of' such or such a thing either because he takes pleasure
in what he ought not, or because he takes more pleasure
in his particular object than he ought, or because he takes
pleasure in it as do the vulgar many, or because he takes
pleasure in it in a way in which he ought not; and in
each and all of these points the intemperate run into
excess. They take pleasure in some things in which
they ought not to take pleasure, for they are abominable;
and, if there be any among the objects of their desire in
which it is right to take pleasure, then they take in it a
pleasure which is greater than they ought, and such as is
felt by the vulgar many. It is self-evident, then, that
excess in the matter of pleasures constitutes intemperance,
and calls for blame. But with regard to pains a man is
not herein, as in the case of bravery, called temperate be-
cause he faces pain, and intemperate because he does not;
but the intemperate man is so called in that he is more
pained than he ought to be if he does not obtain what
gives him pleasure (and so it is his very pleasure that
gives him pain); whereas the temperate man is so called
in that he is not pained by the deprivation of what gives
him pleasure, and in that he can abstain from it.
The intemperate man, then, desires things pleasant as
a whole, or desires the most pleasant among them, and his
desire leads him to choose these things in place of all else.
And consequently he feels pain when he fails to attain
(60.) them and yet continues to desire them, for an element
of pain enters into all desire. And yet it seems a strange
thing that our very pleasures should give us pain. Men
80
[Book III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
I 2.
whose sense of pleasure is deficient, and who feel pleasure
less than they ought, are not really to be met with; for
insensibility of this kind is not human. Even animals
can distinguish between different flavours, and take plea-
ure in some, and not in others. And were nothing to
yield a man pleasure, and were all objects indifferent to
him, his nature would be far from human. And it is only
because such a character is never really to be met with
that it has no name of its own. But the temperate man
bears himself in these matters moderately; for neither
does he take pleasure in those things in which the intem-
perate man especially delights, but rather looks upon them
with indignation; nor, in a word, does he delight in what
he ought not, nor does he take excessive pleasure in any
such thing, nor does it give him pain to be deprived of it,
nor does he ever long for such things, except moderately,
nor does he long for them either more than he ought, or
when he ought not, nor in a word does he ever fall into
any such error. But his appetites are set moderately, and
as is right, upon all such things as are at once pleasant
and good for health, or for bodily condition, and upon all
such other pleasures as do not thwart these by leading to
any violation of noble conduct, or to any expense not
justified by his means. For for a man thus to go astray
is a proof that he estimates such pleasures above their
worth; and this the temperate man would never do, for
he judges all pleasures by the standard of right reason.
Intemperance would seem to be more voluntary than
is cowardice. For intemperance arises in the love of
pleasure, cowardice in the fear of pain-and we naturally
choose pleasure and avoid pain. And pain upsets and
altogether destroys our natural balance, while pleasure.
does nothing of this kind, but is rather voluntary; and
so to give way to it is the more disgraceful. Besides, it
is more easy to accustom ourselves to its influence, for
CHAP. XII.]
81
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
there are many occasions in life upon which this can be
done, and the process of habituation is unattended by any
risk. But of things terrible exactly the reverse holds
good. And, again, the habit of cowardice as a whole
would seem to be more voluntary than are particular acts
of cowardice. For in cowardice as a whole no pain is
involved; but in particular acts of cowardice men are so
upset by pain that they throw away their arms, and do
many other unseemly acts; and hence particular acts of
cowardice have even been held to be compulsory. But
in the case of the intemperate man, on the other hand,
(61.) his particular acts of intemperance are voluntary, for
they proceed from his own desires and appetites. But
his intemperance as a whole is not so voluntary, for no
man really desires to be intemperate. The term intem-
perance, or wantonness, is also applied to the faults of
children, which to some extent resemble the faults of the
intemperate. It matters not for our purpose which of
these two uses of the term is derived from the other; but
it is clear that the most appropriate application was also
the earliest, and gave rise to the other. Nor was the
transference inapt. For that which yearns for what is
disgraceful, and which waxes apace, ought to be tempered
and chastened. And desire is very much of this kind, as
also is a child. For children lead a life of desire, and in
them especially the appetite for pleasure shows itself.
Unless, then, this desire be made obedient and subject to
authority, it will reach great lengths. For in the fool the
desire for pleasure is insatiable, and he seeks it from every
source. And, moreover, our desires wax and grow with
each act of their gratification; and when they have come
to be great and viclent, trample out even reason itself.
And so they ought to be moderate and few, and in no
respect to run counter to cur reason. And, where they
are such, we say that they are obedient, and tempered, or
G
$2
[BOOK III.
THE NICOMACHEAN
I.
chastened. For, as a boy ought to live by his tutor's rule,
so desire ought to act by the rule of reason. And, conse-
quently, the desires of the temperate man ought to move
in harmony with his reason. For the mark at which each
alike aims is that which is noble; and the temperate man
desires what he ought, and desires it as he ought, and
when he ought. And so, too, does reason order him. Of
temperance, therefore, the foregoing may be accepted as
our account.
СПАР. І.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
83
IV.
I. NEXT in order we will treat of liberality, the popular
conception of which is that it is that mean state which is
concerned with property. For it is not with regard to
his conduct in war that praise is given to the liberal man,
nor with regard to those matters with which the tempe-
(62.) rate man is concerned, nor with regard to his conduct
in legal matters, but with regard solely to the giving of
property and the taking of it, and most especially with
regard to giving. By property we must be understood
to mean everything the worth of which can be expressed
in money.
Prodigality, moreover, and illiberality are
manifestations of excess and defect with regard to pro-
perty. Illiberality we never attach except to those who
busy themselves about property more than they ought;
but prodigality is a term which we sometimes apply to
denote a combination of vices. For those who are incon-
tinent, and who waste money upon their intemperance,
we call prodigals; and such men are held to be especially
depraved, for they have many vices at once. But still,
even to such, the term is not applied appropriately; for
by the prodigal ought to be understood he who has but
one vice, namely, that he wastes his substance. For the
word 'prodigal' etymologically signifies one who is
brought to destruction by his own fault; and to waste
one's substance would seem to be a kind of self-destruc-
tion, since life necessarily involves material means and sup-
ports. It is in this strict sense, then, that we shall under-
stand the term prodigality.' Such things as have a use
Can be used for good or for evil. Wealth is a utility.
G 2
84
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
He in each case puts a thing to its best use who has
the virtue which is concerned with it. He, conse-
quently, will put wealth to its best use who has the
virtue which is concerned with property; and he it is
whom we mean by the liberal man. Now the true use of
money would seem to consist in the spending of it, and
the giving of it; for the taking of it, and the careful
keeping of it, would rather seem to be forms or modes of
its acquisition. And, consequently, the liberal man
shows himself to be such by giving to those to whom
he ought, rather than by taking whence he ought and
not taking whence he ought not. For virtue rather
shows itself in treating others as we ought, than in being
treated as we ought; and in doing noble acts, rather than
in abstaining from disgraceful acts. And it is clear that
in the act of giving is involved the benefiting our neigh-
bour, and the doing what is noble; while the act of taking
involves the being benefited by our neighbour, and, at
the most, the abstaining from what is disgraceful. And
it is to the giver that gratitude is due, rather than to him.
who abstains from taking; and the same is true of praise.
And, moreover, it is far easier to abstain from taking
than it is to give. For men as a rule are far more dis-
posed to abstain from taking that which is another's than
to give up that which is their own. And, moreover,
(63.) those who give are called liberal, while | those who
abstain from taking are not praised for their liberality,
but rather for their justice; whereas those who make a
practice of taking meet with no praise at all. Of all the
virtuous it is the liberal who are, perhaps, upon the
whole, the best appreciated; for they are useful to others,
utility being involved in the act of gift. All virtuous
acts are noble, and are done for the sake of that which is
noble. And so the liberal man will in the distribution of
his gifts have that which is noble in view, and he will
CHAP. I.]
85
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
7.
C
award them rightly. For he will give to whom he ought,
and as much as he ought, and will give it when he ought;
and his gift will, in a word, have all the determinations
that a right gift implies. And all this he will do with
pleasure, or, at any rate, without pain; for virtuous
action, if not always pleasant, is at least devoid of pain,
and never positively painful. And hence he who gives
to whom he ought not, or without having that which is
noble in view, but influenced by some other motive, must
not be spoken of as liberal, but must be called by some
other name; as also must he who is pained at making a
gift, for such a one would rather choose money than a
noble action, and to act thus is not the mark of the liberal
man. Moreover, the liberal man will avoid taking from
improper sources, for such a receipt is not the mark of
one who does not hold property in great esteem. Nor
will he be prone to cry Give, give!' For he who loves
to benefit others will not over-lightly receive good offices.
But from right and proper sources the liberal man will
take,—as, for instance, from his private estate,—not on
the ground that it is noble to do so, but rather on the
ground that it is necessary in order that he may have
wherewithal to make gifts to others. Neither will he
neglect his private fortune, since there are others whom
by means of it he wishes to assist. He will also avoid
making his gifts without distinction of persons, that thus
he may be enabled to give to whom he ought, and when he
ought, and where it is noble so to give. But of all the marks
of the liberal man, the most pre-eminently distinctive is that
he makes the measure of his gift so great as to leave for
himself the smaller share, for it is a mark of the liberal
man to disregard himself. But yet a man's liberality
must always be considered with reference to his means;
for true liberality is not to be measured by the magnitude
of the gift, but rather by the disposition of the giver,
86
[BOOK IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
which must be such that his gifts are proportioned to his
means. And thus it is perfectly possible that he may be
the more liberal who makes the smaller gift, provided that
he make it from a scantier income. And hence they would
seem to be the more liberal who have not made their own
fortune, but have inherited it; for they have never had
(64) experience of want; and, besides, what men | most love.
is what they have made for themselves, as we can see in
the case of parents and of poets. For a liberal man to
be rich is no easy task, since he neither cares to take
money from others, nor to keep it for himself, but is open-
handed, and values wealth not for its own sake, but rather
as a means wherewith to make gifts. And hence Fortune
is held to blame because those who deserve the greatest
wealth often have the least. But yet this is only as might
well be expected, for it is with money as with all things
lse he cannot have it who labours not to acquire it.
On the other hand, the liberal man will not give to those
to whom he ought not to give, nor when he ought not to
give, nor will he fall into any other such error; for he
would not then be acting liberally, and, having thus ex-
hausted his property, would no longer be able to spend it
upon worthy objects. For, as has been said before, the
liberal man is he who spends his money as suits his means,
and upon worthy objects, and the prodigal is he who
transgresses either of these two rules. And so a tyrant
cannot properly be called prodigal, for the multitude of
Lis possessions is such that excessive making of gifts or
excessive expenditure is for him a thing almost impos-
sible. Now, since liberality is a mean state with respect
to the giving of money and the taking of it, it follows
that the liberal man will give and will spend his money to
a proper amount, and upon proper purposes, and that he
will do so in little matters no less than in great, and that
he will take pleasure in doing so; and further that his
:
CHAP. I.]
87
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
:
receipts will only be from proper sources, and of a proper
amount. For, since the virtue of liberality is a mean
state with respect both to giving and to taking, it follows
that the liberal man will both give and take as he ought.
Good gifts, indeed, involve and imply good and proper
receipts, any other kind of receipts being incompatible
with them; and gifts and receipts that are compatible
with one another can form a part of the life of the same
man; which cannot possibly be the case with gifts and
receipts that are absolutely incompatible. Moreover,
should the liberal man happen to have fallen into an
expense neither proper nor noble, he will be grieved at
it, it is true, but his grief will be moderate and proper.
For virtue always shows itself in that a man feels
pleasure and pain at right objects, and feels them as
he ought. And, in all transactions where money is in-
volved, the liberal man is easily to be dealt with; for it
is easy to overreach him, inasmuch as he holds money in
no esteem. And he is more grieved if he has not spent
money where he ought, than pained if he has spent money
where he ought not; and so thinks but poorly of the
(65.) wisdom of Simonides. But the prodigal man errs in
all these matters; for neither does he take pleasure at
what he ought, nor as he ought; nor pain; and this we
shall see more clearly as we proceed. We have already
said that prodigality and illiberality are the excesses and
the defects with which we are at present concerned; and
that they manifest themselves in two matters, in giving, that
is to say, and in taking,-expenditure being classed along
with giving. Prodigality, then, is an excess in the matter of
giving and of not taking, for in the matter of taking it is
a defect; while illiberality, on the other hand, is a defect
in the matter of giving, while in the matter of taking it is
an excess, only that the receipts must be small and
petty. And hence the two chief elements of prodigality
SS
[BOOK IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
seldom coexist in their full entirety; for it is not easy to
take from no one, and to give to everyone. When pri-
vate persons take to making gifts at large, their property
quickly fails them; and it is persons of this kind who are
generally held to be prodigals. But, were the combina-
tion practically possible, such a prodigal would be many
degrees better than the illiberal man. His faults are such
as increasing years or straitened means easily remedy, and
it so becomes in his power to hit the proper mean. He
already, indeed, possesses the two chief characteristics of
the liberal man, for he gives to others, and abstains from
taking only he does neither of these rightly and pro-
perly. So that, if by a course of habituation, or by any
other means, he were to modify his conduct, he would
become a liberal man; for he would then give to fitting.
persons, and would not receive from unfit sources. And
so it would seem that he must not be accounted a really
bad man; for to make over-large and over-frequent gifts,
and to altogether abstain from taking, does not so much
argue vice and ill-breeding as folly. And a prodigal of
this stamp is far better than an illiberal man, not only
from the reasons already given, but also because he ac-
tually benefits many others; whereas the illiberal man
benefits no one-no, not even himself. But the majority
of prodigals, as has already been said, have the additional
fault of taking from improper sources, and so are in this
respect illiberal. They become thus over-anxious to
take, because they desire to run into expense, and cannot
do so as easily as they would wish; for their resources
soon fail them, and so they are compelled to seek for
supplies elsewhere. And because, moreover, they have
no regard for what is really noble in conduct, they be-
(66.) come heedless, and will take from any source whatever;
|
for their sole desire is to make presents to others, but how
these presents ought to be made, or whence they ought
CHAP. I.]
89
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
to be procured, matters to them nothing. And so their
gifts cannot even be termed liberal, for they are not noble,
nor do they aim at what is noble, nor are they made as is
right. For the prodigal will at times enrich those who
only deserve to be poor; and to men of fair character,
and who avoid all extremes, they will give nothing, but
upon flatterers, or upon those who furnish them with any
enjoyment, they will bestow large sums. And hence the
majority of them are also intemperate; for they spend
their money recklessly, and waste large sums upon their
vices; and, because their life is not regulated by the
standard of what is noble, pleasure tempts them astray.
Thus then the prodigal, if due care be not taken of him,
falls into these yet further vices; but, if he meet with
careful supervision, will ultimately arrive at the right
and proper mean. But illiberality is incurable; for men
would seem to be made illiberal by old age, and by all
such other hopeless infirmities. It is, moreover, more
akin to human nature than is prodigality, the majority of
men being far more fond of accumulating wealth than of
making presents. It is a vice of wide range, and appears
in many shapes,-the recognised forms of illiberality
being manifold. For, although it involves two principal
characteristics, the giving, that is to say, of too few pre-
sents, and the taking of too many and of too large sums,
yet it does not in all cases manifest itself in its entirety,
its two members having sometimes a distinct existence;
so that while such or such a man, for instance, is over-
greedy to take, such or such another is too sparing of his
gifts. Those, for instance, who are called by such names
as 'thrifty,'' tight-fingered,' ' mean,' are all too spare of
gifts, but yet neither covet the property of others, nor
desire to take gifts from them; and such conduct is, in
some cases, the result of a certain amount of real good
feeling and desire to avoid discredit. For their tight
90
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
watch upon their own property would seem to arise (so
at least they assert) from the fear of being ever com-
pelled to do anything discreditable. Of this kind is the
'skin-flint,' and all such other characters, who are so
named because they can under no circumstances what-
ever be induced to make a present. Then there are
others again who avoid the very touch of what is not
their own, on the ground that it is not easy to take pre-
(67.) sents from others, | unless you also make them gifts; their
one.
rule, therefore, is to have no giving and taking.' On
the other hand, there are others who are over-greedy for
eceipts, taking from any quarter whatever, and what-
ever they can get. Such are all they who ply illiberal
trades, as those, for instance, who keep houses of ill-fame,
and all persons of that class, and usurers who lend out
small sums at exorbitant rates; for all of these take from
improper sources, and take more than they ought. The
element common to them all is clearly that of making
disgraceful gains. For they all submit to public infamy
for the sake of gain, and that gain, moreover, a petty
For those who acquire great wealth to which they
have no right, and from wrong sources, as, for instance,
tyrants who sack cities and pillage temples, we do not
call illiberal, but, rather, wicked; that is to say, sacrile-
gious and unjust. But among the illiberal are classed
sharpers, such as are dicers, and thieves, such as are
stealers of clothes and footpads; for both sharpers and
thieves ply their craft, and submit to its infamy, for a
petty gain; and thieves in pursuit of their booty will run
the greatest risks, while sharpers make a profit out of
their friends, to whom one ought to give. And so they
both desire to make a profit from an improper source,
and are hence rightly held to be traffickers in disgraceful
gains,—all such receipts whatever being illiberal. And
it is with good reason that by the term 'illiberality'
CHAP. II.]
91
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
2.
is implied the contradictory of liberality; for illiberality
is in itself a greater evil than is prodigality, and it leads
men into errors both more numerous and more great.
Such, then, is our account of liberality, and of the
vices which are opposed to it.
Next in order magnificence must be adequately dis-
cussed, for it, too, is a virtue which has property for its
object. But its range does not, like that of liberality,
extend to all transactions into which property enters, but
is strictly confined to such as are expensive; and in these
it exceeds liberality in magnitude; for, as its name indi-
cates, it is an expense in the magnitude of which consists
(68.) its merit. Magnitude, of course, involves | some standard
of reference, for it does not become the captain of a pri-
vateer to go to the same expense as does the leader of a
sacred embassy. In estimating what expense becomes a
man, we must take into account, first, who the man is;
secondly, the object upon which he spends his money;
and, thirdly, the amount which he spends.' He who puts
himself to a legitimate expense in small or in ordinary
matters, as, for instance,
Oft to a vagrant have I given alms,
is not called magnificent, but only he who acts thus
in great matters; for, although every magnificent man.
is also liberal, it does not follow that every liberal man is
magnificent. Magnificence, then, being such as we
have said, its defect is called pettiness, while its excess is
known as vulgarity, or as want of taste, or by some other
such name, and does not consist in too great an expendi-
ture on proper objects, but in over-ostentation manifested
upon improper occasions, and in a wrong manner; and
about this we shall speak hereafter. Magnificence, then,
would seem to involve some special kind of knowledge,
1 For Tepi & read &, with the New College Manuscript, as Michelet
advises.
92
[BOOK IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
for the magnificent man knows exactly what becomes the
occasion, and can spend large sums with good taste. The
determinants of each moral state are, as we originally
said, the acts by which it manifests itself, and the objects
with which it is concerned. Now the expenses to which
the magnificent man puts himself are great and becom-
ing; and, therefore, the results of his expenditure must be
also such; for so only can the expense be properly called
a great expense, and one that becomes its object. The
object, in a word, must be one worthy of the expense,
and the expense must be one worthy of the object, or
even more than worthy of it. Expenses of this kind the
magnificent man will incur that he may thereby make his
conduct noble as a whole; for the Beautifully-good and
Noble is the one common end of all the virtues; and he
will, moreover, take pleasure in such expenses, and will
spend his money with an open hand; for to economise in
details is narrow-minded. And his first question will be,
how he can produce the most noble and becoming result;
not what will be the expense, and how can it be brought
to a minimum. And, consequently, the magnificent man
must of necessity be liberal, for the liberal man will
always, where he can, expend a fitting sum in a proper
manner. But, in all such expenses, although liberality
and magnificence are concerned with the same objects, the
characteristic of the magnificent man is magnitude of
scale, as, for example, the spending his money upon an
object of actually great bulk; and, with an expense no
greater than that incurred by another man, he will pro-
duce a more magnificent result. Nor must it be for-
gotten that the glory of the possession which a man
acquires is one, and that the glory of the result which he
produces is another. For the glory of the possession is
measured by its worth, as is the glory of gold, but the
glory of the result by its magnitude and beauty. For such a
CHAP. II.]
93
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
|
(69.) result is wondrous to behold, and | all that is magnificent
ought to be wonderful. Thus, in a word, the glory of a re-
sult is magnificence, manifesting itself in greatness of bulk.
Now there are certain expenses which are recognised
as ennobling him who incurs them, such as are offerings
made to the Gods, or a new temple, or a public sacrifice,
or indeed any other religious service whatsoever; and,
with these, all those public expenses in which citizens vie
with one another; as when, for instance, it is desired to
put a play upon the stage in brilliant style, or to equip a
privateer, or to give a banquet to our fellow-citizens.
And on all such occasions, as has already been said, the
standards by which we measure the effect are the position
of the donor and his circumstances. For the expense to
which he puts himself must be such as suits his rank and
his fortune, and must become not only the occasion, but
also him who occupies it. And, consequently, a poor
man can never display magnificence, his income not being
sufficient to warrant a large and becoming expense; and
to attempt such a display is in him only a mark of folly,
violating that rightness and propriety which all virtue in-
volves. Such an attempt becomes those alone who have
a large estate, either acquired by themselves, or inherited
from their forefathers, or relations, and who are also of
noble birth, and of high public position, and so forth; for
in all these requisites is involved that magnitude and
dignity which the position of the magnificent man ought
to imply. Such then ought the magnificent man to be;
and such, as we have already said, are the expenses upon
which magnificence ought to be manifested; for they are
the greatest, and are held in the highest honour. And
to these may be added all those private occasions of ex-
pense that occur but once in a lifetime; as, for instance,
marriage, or any other occasion of equal importance;
and any other private expense in which interest is taken
94
[BOOK IV.
THIE NICOMACHEAN
by the city as a whole, or by the leading citizens: to
which also may be added public entertainments given to
great men from other countries upon their arrival and
upon their departure, and the making of gifts to distin-
guished foreigners, or the sending of gifts to them in
return. For the disbursements of the magnificent man
ought to be made in the public interest, and not in his
own; and in this point a gift has a certain resemblance
to an offering to the Gods. The magnificent man will,
moreover, equip his house as becomes his wealth, for he
thereby adds a certain lustre to his position; and he will
prefer such expenses as lead to the most durable and per-
manent results, for such are the most noble. Above all
he will always consider what most becomes the particular
occasion. For the fitting expense with which to honour
the Gods is one, and that with which to honour men is
another; and the fitting cost for a temple is one, and that
(70.) for a tomb is another. | Each expense, in a word, is great
according to its kind; and the most magnificent expense
is a great expense upon a great object, and among such
expenses again it is their greatness which is the measure
of their magnificence. But, still, greatness as a matter
of result must be carefully distinguished from greatness
as a matter of expense. For a ball or a flagon, if it be
the most beautiful of its kind which can be procured, is a
magnificent present to give a child, although its actual
value is so small that to consider it would be illiberal.
And hence we can see that, whatever the magnificent man
undertakes, he will carry it out with a magnificence that
suits its kind; for so he will produce a result not easily
to be surpassed, and worthy of the expense incurred in
its production. Such then is the character of the mag-
nificent man.
But he who runs into the excess of vul-
garity errs, as we have already said, in transgressing the
proper measure of expense.
СНАР. 1Ш.]
95
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
Such a man will upon small occasions spend large
sums, and affect an ill-timed and inharmonious splendour.
When, for instance, his turn comes to entertain his break-
fast club, he will give them a wedding collation; and,
when he has to equip the comic chorus, he will dress them
in purple for their opening song, as do the Megarians.
And he does things of this kind, not from love of what is
really noble, but merely from a desire to parade his
wealth, and with hope of being thereby wondered at.
And, in a word, where he ought to spend much, he spends
little; and, where he ought to spend little, he spends
much. The petty-minded man, on the other hand, does
everything upon a deficient scale; and, even where he has
put himself to what is for him the greatest expense, will
ruin the effect for some trifle; and he delays over every-
thing that he undertakes, that he may consider how to
spend a minimum upon it; and even that minimum he
regrets, and always believes that he is doing more than is
required of him. Vulgarity, then, and with it pettiness
must be ranked as vices; although no great opprobrium
attaches to them, because neither do they injure a man's
neighbours, nor do they to any great extent violate decency.
High-mindedness, as its very name would seem to
show, is concerned with high and great matters; and
what these are, we must first determine. It is indif-
ferent for our purpose whether we consider the habit or
the man in whom it is manifested. We shall find that
the high-minded man is he who, being really worthy of
great things, holds himself worthy of them; for he who
holds himself thus worthy beyond his real deserts is a
fool, and no man possessed of any virtue whatsoever can
ever be a fool or show want of understanding. Such
71.) then is | the high-minded man; he who, being worthy of
but small things, holds himself worthy of them, being
properly-minded indeed, but still not high-minded.
3.
For
A
96
BOOK IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
high-mindedness involves greatness of scale, just as true
beauty requires a large frame-little men being neat and
symmetrical, indeed, but still not beautiful. He who
thinks himself worthy of great things, being in reality
unworthy of them, shows what is commonly called
'chirking vanity,' or conceit,—although to overestimate
one's own merits need not of necessity imply such conceit,
-and he, on the other hand, who holds himself worthy of
less than his merits, is little-minded, no matter whether
the merits which he thus underrates be great, or mo-
derate, or small. And he is most little-minded if his
merits be really great. For, if they had not been such,
what would his estimate of himself have been? The
merits, then, of the high-minded man are extreme, but in
his conduct he observes the proper mean.
For he holds
himself worthy of his exact deserts, while others either
over-estimate, or else under-estimate their own merits.
And, since he is not only worthy of great things, but also
holds himself worthy of them, or rather indeed of the
very greatest things, it follows that there is some one
object which ought most especially to occupy him. Now,
when we speak of what a man is worth, or of what he is
worthy, it is always with reference to external goods.
We hold, moreover, that to be the greatest of all goods
which we attribute to the Gods, and which is the chief
aim of all great men, and the recognised reward for the
noblest exploits. And to this definition honour answers,
for it is the very greatest of all external goods.
is honour, consequently, and with it by implication dis-
honour that are the objects with which the virtue of the
high-minded man is concerned. It is indeed too self-
evident to need any proof, that it is honour with which
the high-minded occupy themselves; for it is to honour,
most of all things, that men of high position lay claim,
inasmuch as they rightly estimate their own worth. The
And it
CHAP. III.]
97
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
little-minded man, on the other hand, forms an estimate
of himself which falls short of his own merits, and à
fortiori of those of the high-minded man; whereas the
conceited man has an estimate of himself which exceeds
his own merits, although it does not exceed those of the
high-minded man. Now the high-minded man, since his
deserts are the highest possible, must be among the best
of men; for the better a man is, the higher will be his
deserts, and the best man will have the highest deserts.
True high-mindedness, therefore, cannot but imply virtue;
or, rather, the criterion of high-mindedness is the con-
joint perfection of all the individual virtues. And so the
(72.) high-minded man will never under any circumstances |
take to a coward's flight, legs and arms at once, nor will
he ever commit a fraud. For what adequate object can
he who holds nothing in great esteem possibly have for a
disgraceful act? In short, whatever we suppose to be
the circumstances, the more we consider the character of
the high-minded man, the more will the notion of any
demerit in him appear ridiculous. And indeed any
such demerit would deprive him of his claim to honour;
for honour is the prize of virtue, and it is only to the
good that it is ascribed. High-mindedness, then, would
seem to be the crown, as it were, of all thevirtues; for it not
only involves their existence, but it also intensifies their
lustre. And, consequently, there is nothing so difficult
as to be truly high-minded, for it is impossible to be such
without perfect nobility of character. It is with honour,
then, and with dishonour that the high-minded man is
most especially concerned. And, where he meets with
great honour, and that from upright men, he will take
pleasure in it; although his pleasure will not be excessive,
inasmuch as he has obtained at the outside only what he
merits, if not perhaps less-for for perfect virtue adequate
honour cannot be found. He will, however, none the
I
98
[COOK IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
less welcome such honour from upright men, inasmuch as
they have no greater reward to offer him. But honour
given by the common herd, and upon unimportant occa-
sions, he will hold in utter contempt, for it will be no
measure of his deserts. And dishonour of all kinds he
will equally disregard, since it cannot justly concern him.
It is with honour, then, as has already been said, that the
high-minded man is most especially concerned; not but
that with regard to wealth also, and hereditary family
power, and indeed all good fortune and bad, whatsoever
may take place, he will bear himself with such due mo-
deration that neither will good fortune exceedingly elate,
nor bad fortune exceedingly depress him. For he does
not even bear himself towards honour as if it were the
very greatest of all goods. And yet family rank and
wealth are only to be desired for the honour which they
bring. Those, at all events, who possess them seek to
acquire honour by their means. Now he who makes but
little of honour must needs make but little of all things
else, and hence it is that the high-minded are held to be
arrogant. But yet good fortune would seem to some
extent to contribute to high-mindedness; for those who
are nobly born claim honour as their due, as also do those
who have high family rank or great possessions, for all
such have a something wherein they exceed other men;
and the greater the excess of good the greater always is
the consequent honour. And hence it is that all good
fortune of this kind makes men more high-minded than
(73.) they would otherwise have been, for there are certain
quarters in which it brings them honour. Really and
truly it is the good man alone who ought to be held in
honour; but whoso has both virtue and great prosperity
is on that account held worthy of the more honour.
those who have such good fortune without virtue cannot
justly advance any great claims, nor can they properly be
But
CHAP. III.]
99
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
called high-minded: for to make such claims, and to be
so called, involves and implies perfect virtue. Those,
then,' who have good fortune such as this, and nothing more,
end by becoming arrogant and insolent. For without
virtue it is difficult to bear gracefully the gifts of for-
tune; and, since men cannot so bear them, and believe
themselves superior to their fellows, they look down upon
others, and to their own conduct pay not the least
regard. And so they imitate the high-minded man,
although not really like him,-that is to say, they do so
where they can.
And hence they combine contempt for
their neighbours with entire absence on their own part of
really noble conduct. Now the high-minded man justly
despises his neighbours, for his estimate is always right;
but the majority of men despise their fellows upon in-
sufficient grounds. The high-minded man is not fond of
slight danger; nor does he court danger as a whole,
since there are but few things which he holds in esteem ;
but a great danger he will encounter, and upon such an
occasion is unsparing of his life, since he holds even life.
upon certain terms to be dishonour. He also loves to
confer a favour, but feels shame at receiving one; for the
former argues superiority, the latter inferiority. And he
always repays a favour with a greater; for so he who first
commenced the exchange of kindly offices ends by being
laid under an obligation for the kindnesses which he has
received. The high-minded would, moreover, seem to
bear those in mind to whom they have done kindnesses,
but not those from whom they have received them. For
he who has received a kindness stands in a position in-
ferior to that of him who has conferred it, whereas the
high-minded man desires a position of superiority. And
so he hears with pleasure of the favours he has conferred,
but of those which he has received with dislike. And
1 Omit kal before oi tà Tolaûta exovтes, as Michelet suggests.
i
H 2
100
[BOOK IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
...
hence it is that we are told that Thetis did not remind
Zeus of her good offices; as neither did the Lacedæmo-
nians the Athenians, but only spoke of the benefits which
they had received. It would seem, too, that the high-
minded man asks favours of no one, or, at any rate, asks
them with the greatest reluctance, but that he is always
eager to do good offices to others; and that towards those
in high position and prosperity he bears himself with
pride, but towards ordinary men with moderation; for in
the former case it is difficult to show superiority, and to
do so is a lordly matter; whereas in the latter case it is
easy. And to be haughty among the great is no proof
of bad breeding, but haughtiness among the lowly is as
(74.) base-born a thing as it is to make trial of great strength
upon the weak. Neither will the high-minded man seek
ordinary opportunities of honour, or occasions where.
others than himself hold the first place. He will rather
be given to inactivity and to delay, unless great honour
or some other great result is at stake. And hence his
achievements will be but few, but those great in them-
selves and of great repute. Moreover, he cannot but be
open in his enmities and open in his love; for to conceal
either hatred or affection argues fear. And he regards
truth rather than report, and in both speech and action
he is frank and open; for he speaks boldly from contempt
of others. And hence, too, he will be truthful, except
where he speaks ironically; but towards the many his
bearing will be ironical. Neither will he submit to
mould his life for any other than for his friend; for to do
so is the part of a slave-all flatterers being of slavish
spirit, and all weak-souled men flatterers. Neither is he
given to wonder, inasmuch as there is nothing which he
holds great. Nor does he bear malice; for high-minded-
ness does not show itself by long memory of past events,
especially of past injuries, but rather by entire neglect of
CHAP. III.]
ΙΟΙ
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
such things. Neither is he a babbler: for he neither
talks about himself, nor about other men, since he cares
not either to hear himself praised, or to hear others.
blamed; while, on the other hand, he is also sparing of
his praise. And so, too, he speaks evil of no man; no,
not even of his enemies, unless it be in the pride of
strength. And about the necessities of life, or about
trifles of any sort, he is the last of all men to make com-
plaints or prefer requests; for to do so argues over-zeal
about such matters. And he will prefer possessions that
are noble, and that bear no profit, to such as are of pro-
fit and utility, for he thus more thoroughly shows his in-
dependence. The high-minded man, moreover, ought to
move slowly, and his voice ought to be deep and his
utterance deliberate; for he who busies himself about
but few things will not be given to haste, nor will he who
thinks nothing great be of shrill quick speech; for a
high-pitched voice and a hasty step come from these
reasons Such, then, is the high-minded man; while the
deficiency of high-mindedness is little-mindedness, and its
excess is vanity. But yet little-mindedness and vanity
are not to be counted as vices; for, though they argue
error, they do not result in any actual harm to others.
For the little-minded man has merits that deserve a cer-
(75.) tain reward, and yet he deprives himself of his | just
deserts. And so he would seem to some extent to be in
fault, in that he does not duly estimate his own merits,
and so shows ignorance of his true character. Otherwise
he would certainly have striven to gain the true reward
of his deserts, inasmuch as that reward is good. But yet
such men must not be held to be foolish, but, rather,
diffident. And the opinion which they have of them-
selves tends to exaggerate their weakness. For, while all
other men aim at what they conceive to be their true
deserts, these men stand aloof from noble actions and
102
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
4.
noble pursuits, believing that they are not worthy of
them; and in the same way, too, do they hold themselves
aloof from all external goods. But the conceited are.
fools; and, moreover, full of self-ignorance, and that,
too, manifestly. For they attempt occasions of honour,
as if they were worthy thereof, and are then detected
therein. And by their dress, and gesture, and such other
means, they endeavour to produce a great effect; and
they further desire that their prosperity may be seen of
men, and their talk is about themselves, that by all these
means they may be held in honour. But yet it is little-
mindedness rather than conceit which contrasts itself with
high-mindedness, for it is a more frequent fault, and in-
volves a greater error.
High-mindedness is then, as we have said, concerned
with great honour. But there would also seem, as
indeed was said before, to be another virtue, which also
is concerned with honour, and which stands in the same
relation to high-mindedness as does liberality to magni-
ficence; for both it and liberality make us stand aloof
from things great, and bear ourselves properly in matters
moderate and small. Exactly, then, as in the taking and
in the giving of money there is a mean, and an excess,
and a defect; so, too, a man can aim at honour more than
he ought, and less than he ought, and can also seek it
from proper sources, and as he ought. For we blame the
ambitious man as being one who craves for honour more
than he ought, and who seeks it from improper sources;
and we also blame the unambitious man as one who will not
receive honour, even as the reward of a noble achievement.
(76.) And at times, again, we, as | has been said before, praise
the ambitious man as being a true man, and a lover of
fair fame; and at times we praise the unambitious man,
as one who shuns excess, and who is sober-minded,
it is clear that, inasmuch as the phrase lover of' such or
And
१.
CHAP. V.]
103
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
5.
such a thing admits of a variety of shades of meaning,
we do not always use the phrase 'lover of honour,' or
' ambitious,' in the same signification; but, when its con-
notation is one of praise, it denotes a man who desires
honour more than do the many; while, when its connota-
tion is one of blame, it denotes a man who desires
honour more than is right. Since the mean state
herein has no name of its own, it becomes a sort of
waste land to which its border marches, the extremes,
lay claim; for, where excess and defect exist, there also
exists the mean. Now men do, as a matter of fact, aim at
honour more than they ought, and less than they ought,
and sometimes also as they ought: it is at least clear that
there does exist such a habit as we have described,
that it is praiseworthy, that it is a mean state with
regard to honour, and that it has no name of its own.
As compared with ambition, it would seem to be a want
of ambition; and, as compared with the want of ambi-
tion, in would seem to be ambition; and, as compared
with both, it would seem, to a certain extent, to be both
at once: and this is a rule that would seem to equally
hold good of the other virtues. The reason why those
who run into the extremes herein seem to be opposed to
one another is because he who observes the mean has no
name of his own.
Gentleness is properly a mean state with regard to
anger; but, inasmuch as he who observes the mean with
regard to anger has no recognised name, as indeed
hardly have those who fall into either extreme, we apply
the term gentleness' to him who observes the mean,
implying thereby a tendency in him towards the defect
-which defect has no name of its own.
The excess
6
is not inaptly called wrathfulness; for the emotion
underlying it is wrath, or anger, of which the exciting
causes are many and diverse. He, then, who becomes
104
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
C
angry at what he ought, and with whom he ought, and,
further, as he ought, and when he ought, and for as long
as he ought, he is praised: and he it is who ought to
be called gentle, since it is gentleness alone that is to be
praised. For the gentle man ought to be of unruffled
temper, and not to be led away by passion, but, exactly
as reason orders, so only, and upon such occasions alone,
and for so long only, to bear bitterness. But, if any-
thing, he would seem to err on the side of defect, for he
loves pardon rather than revenge.
The absolute defect,
whether it is to be called want of anger,' or whatever
other name is to be given to it, is to be blamed. For
those who do not feel anger at what they ought are held
to be weak and foolish; as also are those who do not feel
anger as they ought, or who do not feel it when they
ought, or with whom they ought. Such a man seems to
(77.) be dull of perception and to have no | sense of pain, and
the absence of all anger argues the absence in him of
For to submit to insult, or to over-
proper resentment.
look an insult offered to our friends, shows a slavish
spirit. The excess, on the other hand, can take almost
every shape. For we can be angry with those with
whom we ought not to be angry, and at things at
which we ought not to be angry, and we can be more
angry than we ought, and we can become angry more
quickly than we ought, and remain angry for a longer
time than we ought. But still the same man does not
fall into all of these faults. This he could not possibly
do. For anger is an evil that destroys itself, and if it
come in its fullest intensity is a thing impossible to be
borne. And so, first of all, we find the irritable, as those
are called who become angry quickly, and with those with
whom they ought not to be angry, and for matters which
ought not to make them angry, and who are more angry
than they ought to be, but whose anger is quickly over.
CHAP. V.]
105
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
anger
And this last is the best point in their character. And
the reason of it is that they do not brood over their
wrath; but their quick temper betrays them into open
and immediate reprisal, and then their anger ceases.
The excess of irritability is found in the passionate, who
are keen to take offence, and who become angry at every-
thing, and upon every occasion; and hence it is that
they have their name. Then, in the second place, there
are the sulky, with whom it is hard to be reconciled, and
who remain angry for a long time; for they brood over
their wrath. When, however, such a man has made
reprisals, then his anger ceases; for revenge substitutes a
pleasure for the previous pain, and so makes his
cease. But, if they cannot do this, they continue their
grievance; for, since it does not openly manifest itself,
there is no one who can reason with them, and to digest
one's spleen within one's self needs time. Such persons
cause infinite trouble, both to themselves and to their
dearest friends. Lastly, we call those nasty-tempered'
who become angry at things at which they ought not to
be angry, and who are more angry than they ought to be,
and for a longer time, and who will not be reconciled
without they have revenged themselves or punished their
enemies. It is the excess rather than the defect that we
ordinarily oppose to gentleness. In the first place it is
more frequently met with than is the defect, for love of
revenge is more natural to man than is apathy; and, in
the second place, it is worse to have to pass one's life
with those who are nasty-tempered than with those who
are apathetic. The present is, moreover, a good instance
by which to illustrate what has been elsewhere stated.
For it is no easy matter to exactly determine how, and
with whom, and for what, and for how long, a man ought
to be angry; and up to what point a man acts rightly
herein, and at what point he begins to err. For he who
C
106
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
(78.) steps but little wide of the mean is not | blamed, whether
he incline towards excess or towards defect; for at times
we praise those who manifest anger too little, and call
them meek, and at times again we call those who manifest
wrath manly, and say that they are fit to govern their
fellows. And yet it is no easy matter to determine by
precise rule up to what point, and how far, such trans-
gression of the mean can take place without blame; for
all such questions as this are in their very nature par-
ticular matters of fact, which must be decided by im-
mediate perception, and not by argument. But still thus
much at least is clear, that that which is praiseworthy is
the mean state, in virtue of which we are angry with
whom we ought, and at what we ought, and as we ought,
and so forth: while the excess and the defect, in what-
ever shapes they occur, are blameable, being but slightly
blameable if they go to but a slight extent, more blame-
able if they proceed further, while, if they go to great.
lengths, they are absolutely to be condemned. And so it
is clear that we must do our best to hold fast to the mean
6. state.
Here closes our account of those states of mind
which have anger for their object matter. In society, on
the other hand, that is to say in spending our life in the
company of others, and in the commerce both of words and
of acts which we have with them, there are some meu
who are held to be obsequious; who lavish praise upon
everything, that they may please their listeners; who
never contest any point whatever; and whose idea of duty
is that it consists in giving no offence to those with whom
we come into contact. And there are others who do the
exact opposite to all this, who contest every point, and
who never consider for a moment whether they annoy
their neighbours; and these are called surly and conten-
tious. It is, of course, easily to be seen that the habits.
which we have just described call for blame; and that
CHAP. VI.]
107
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
!
1
that which is praiseworthy is the mean state, in virtue of
which a man tolerates what he ought, and tolerates it as
he ought, and regulates his resentment by similar rules.
This state of mind has had no name given to it, but it
very closely resembles friendship: for he in whom this
mean state is manifested is, with the one addition of
affection, exactly the person whom we should describe as
a good friend.
But still this habit differs from friendship
because it involves no element of emotion or of affection
for those with whom we associate. Such a man does not
receive the conduct of others rightly because he, as the
case may be, either likes or dislikes them, but rather
because it is his character so to receive it. For, whether
he be associating with those of whom he is ignorant, or
with those whom he knows, or with those with whom he
is acquainted, or with those with whom he is absolutely
unacquainted, he will bear himself similarly, except that
he will in each case act as suits the particular occasion;
for it is not right to pay equal regard to the feelings of
friends and of perfect strangers, nor on the other hand to
be equally regardless of the pain which one may give
them. Upon the whole, then, such a man will, as we
(79) have said, bear himself in society as he ought; but still
he will always be guided by the standard of what is noble
and of what is expedient, and his aim will be to con-
tribute to a mutual pleasure where he possibly can, or at
any rate to avoid the giving of pain. He would indeed
seem to be concerned with those pleasures and pains
which originate in society; and, with regard to these,
wheresoever it is not noble for him to contribute to a
mutual pleasure, or where it is really detrimental to do
so, there he will scout the notion of giving such a plea-
sure, and will rather prefer to inflict pain. And should,
moreover, the act be one such as to bring disgrace, and
that, too, no small disgrace, upon the doer of it, or, it may
108
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
7.
be, material injury, while the refusal on the other hand
gives but little pain, he will not tolerate such an act, but
will give an unmistakeable refusal. He will moreover
bear himself differently according as he has to associate
with men of great position or with mere chance-comers,
and according as his company is well known to him or
not; and in all other cases where a similar distinction can
be made he will follow the same rule, treating each per-
son as he ought to be treated, and, as an abstract rule,
preferring to contribute to a mutual pleasure and taking
all care to avoid giving pain, but still being guided by
results, accordingly as they may preponderate, or, in other
words, keeping what is noble and what is expedient
steadily in view. And hence it is that for the sake of a
great pleasure in the future he will sometimes inflict a
slight pain at the present. Such then is the man who
observes the mean in his social conduct. To him no
name has as yet been given; but, of those whose aim is
to impart a mutual pleasure, he whose sole object is to
appear agreeable, and who has no ulterior end in view, is
called obsequious; while he who acts thus that he may
receive therefrom some pecuniary or material benefit is a
flatterer. He, on the other hand, who treats everybody
roughly is, as we have already said, called surly and conten-
tious. And the two extremes would seem to be opposed
to one another because the mean has no name of its own.
What may be called the mean state with respect to
boastfulness is concerned with almost the same object-
matter as the virtue just investigated; and, like it, has not
name of its own. But yet it is best that all such moral
states should be adequately investigated; for, for a full
knowledge of human character, a detailed discussion of
particular moral phenomena is essential; and the best way
in which to strengthen our conviction that the virtues are
mean states is to ascertain that the rule holds good in each
F
109
CHAP. VII.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
particular case. We have already spoken of those whose
intercourse with us in daily life is so directed as to yield
us either pleasure or pain: and we will now treat of those
whose conduct is either truthful or untruthful, whether it
be in speech, or in action, or in the pretensions which
they advance. The braggart would seem to be he who
lays claim to qualities usually held in esteem, and which
he does not really possess, or who lays claim to them in a
(So.) greater degree than is justified by facts; while the
ironical man, on the other hand, either denies the merits
which he actually possesses, or else depreciates them;
and, lastly, he who observes the mean herein is a kind of
'plain blunt man,' truthful both in life and in speech,
who acknowledges his own merits, and who neither ex-
aggerates nor depreciates them. Each of these three
types of character may be assumed to serve some parti-
cular end, or may be assumed with no such ulterior object.
And, indeed, as is each man's character, so he speaks,
and so he acts, and so he lives, unless he have some
special motive to the contrary. Moreover, falsehood of
any kind, considered entirely by itself, and without
reference to circumstances, is disgraceful and blameable,
while the truth is noble and praiseworthy. And so the
truthful man, who observes the mean in these matters,
ought to be praised; while those who practise deceit are
each of them to be blamed, but the braggart most of the
two.
We will proceed to describe each of these two
types of character; and also the truthful type, with which
we will commence. We are not herein concerned with
him who is truthful in his agreements and bargains, or in
those matters which come under the scope of injustice and
of justice (for with these it is altogether another virtue
that is concerned), but rather with him who, where no
such question is at issue, is truthful in his speech and in
his life, because it is his character to be such; and a man
110
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
of this character cannot but be esteemed as good. For
he who loves the truth, and who is truthful in unim-
portant matters, will be all the more truthful in matters
that are important. For, since it was his custom to avoid
a falsehood in itself and independently of all circum-
stances, he will surely all the more avoid it when it in-
volves disgrace: and such a man as this deserves praise.
If anything, however, his statements will fall a little short.
of the truth; for a slight depreciation of this kind would
seem to be in better taste, inasmuch as exaggeration in
any form is odious. He, on the other hand, who lays
claim to more than his merits, and who does so with no
particular object in view, to a certain extent resembles a
bad man, for otherwise he would not take pleasure in
falsehood; but he clearly is not so much to be held a
wicked man, as a fool who talks at random. He who ex-
aggerates his merits with an ulterior object, if that object
be reputation or honour, as in the case of the braggart, is
not so much to be blamed; but his conduct becomes more
disgraceful when his object is money, or any form of
material advantage. It is not then the mere power of ex-
aggeration that constitutes the braggart, but rather the
purpose to which that power is intentionally put. A
man is a braggart as a matter of habit, and because it is
his character to be such; much as there is one type of
liar who loves a lie for its own sake, and another who lies
(S1.) to win reputation or to make money. Those then who
play the braggart for the sake of reputation, lay claim to
those qualities for which men are praised, or for the pos-
session of which they are accounted happy; while those
whose object is gain, make a pretence of qualifications
which are of use to their neighbours, and the absence of
which can be successfully concealed, as, for instance, skill
in soothsaying, or in medicine. And hence it is that the
majority of men advance claims of this description, and
|
CHAP. VIII.]
I I I
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
play the braggart about them; inasmuch as all such
claims have the advantages which we have mentioned.
The ironical, on the other hand, whose conversation tends
to depreciate themselves, are of a more pleasing type of
character; for it would seem that they do not so much
mould their conversation with a view to profit, as from
the wish to avoid pomposity. And so what they most
especially disclaim is any quality held in high estimation ;
as used to be the habit of Socrates. But those who dis-
claim unimportant merits which they evidently possess,
are known as 'mock-modest,' and are simply despicable.
Such mock-modesty is at times a mere form of braggartry,
as is the over-simple dress of the Spartans; for over-
modesty can be as braggart a thing as over-boastfulness.
Those however who avoid all excess in their irony, re-
stricting it to matters that are not too commonplace and
obvious, manifest their good taste. And it is the brag-
gart whom we contrast with the truthful man, inasmuch
as the extreme into which he runs is the worst of the
two.
8. Since the business of life calls for rest, and rest in-
volves recreation and amusement, it follows that upon
such occasions it is possible to adopt a bearing which
is in good taste, or, in other words, to say what one
ought, and to say it as one ought, and to observe a simi-
lar rule as to what it is to which one listens. And it
also, of course, will matter much to whom it is that we
are speaking, or, as the case may be, listening. It is
clear, then, that in such matters one can both exceed the
mean, and fall short of it. Those who push the ridi-
culous to excess are called buffoons, and are rightly held
to be of vulgar mind; for their craving for merriment is
reckless, and their object is rather to raise a laugh by any
means whatever, than to say what is seemly, and to avoid
paining those at whom they mock. Those, on the other
II 2
[BOOK IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
hand, who would on no account indulge in a joke them-
selves, and who take offence at all who do so, are held to
be savage and austere. Those however whose jokes are
in good taste are called witty or quick-witted, as if their
(82.) wits moved quickly; for it would seem that the cha-
I
racter, no less than the body, is capable of such move-
ments; and, exactly as the body is judged by its move-
ments, so too should be the character. And, since the
ridiculous has a wide range, and since most men take
more pleasure than they ought in fun and ridicule, even
buffoons are often called witty, on the ground that they
are agreeable. But that there is a difference, and that no
small one, between buffoonery and wit, is clear from what
has been said. The peculiarity of the mean state is the
tact which it involves. For a man of tact will make and
listen to such jokes only as become a good and liberally-
minded man. There are, indeed, certain jokes which it
is not unbecoming for such a man either to hear or to
make by way of amusement; and there is a great dif-
ference between the amusements of the liberally-minded
and those of the slavish, and between those of the educated
and those of the uneducated. This can be distinctly seen
from a comparison of the Old comedies with the New;
for the wit of the Old comedies consisted in their gross-
ness, while that of the New lies rather in innuendo; and,
from the point of view of good taste, there is no little
difference between these two. What then is to be the
definition of decorous ridicule? Is it that we are to say
nothing that does not become a liberally-minded man?-
or that we are on no account to pain our hearer ?—or that
we are absolutely to gratify him? Or is it not rather
true that about such matters no exact rules can be laid
down, inasmuch as the likes and dislikes of no two men
whatever are identical? In any case the jokes to which
the witty mar will listen will be regulated by similar
CHAP. IX.]
113
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
rules; for the jokes which a witty man makes will be
such only as he will submit to hear. And consequently
the witty man will not indulge in every kind of ridicule.
For all ridicule is a species of abuse, and legislators, in-
asmuch as they forbid certain forms of abuse, ought per-
haps also to have forbidden certain forms of ridicule.
And the man of culture, who is liberally-minded, will bear
himself according to these rules, and be, as it were, a law
unto himself. Such then is the man who observes the cor-
rect mean,-whether it is tact which we are to say that he
has, or wit: whereas the buffoon can never resist the ridi-
culous, and, provided only that he can raise a laugh, will
spare neither himself nor anyone else, and will say things.
which no gentleman would ever say, and sometimes even
things to which no gentleman would submit to listen.
The savage man, on the other hand, is absolutely useless
in any society which has amusement for its object; for he
contributes nothing to the general amusement, while he
takes offence at anyone who endeavours to do so;-and
it ought perhaps to be observed that recreation and
(83.) amusement are necessary for active life. | Such then are
the three mean states which are possible in the conduct of
life, and which are all concerned with our intercourse in
speech and in action, but which differ from one another,
in that the object of the one is truthfulness, and that of
the other two pleasure. And of these last two the one is
concerned with pleasure as it enters into our amusements,
the other with pleasure as it enters into all the other
forms of daily intercourse to which life gives rise.
9.
C
To speak of shame as a virtue is hardly accurate, for
it rather resembles an emotion than a formed state of
character. Indeed, its very definition is the fear of
evil repute,' and in its results it very closely resembles
the fear of danger. For those who are ashamed blush,
while those who are in fear of death turn pale. And
1
I
114
[Book IV.
THE NICOMACHEAN
both these affections are clearly physical. And physical
affection is more characteristic of an emotion than of a
habit. Moreover, shame does not become all ages alike,
being only appropriate to youth. For we hold that the
young ought to have a proper sense of shame, inasmuch
as, their life being governed by the passion of the
moment, they would fall into many errors were they not
restrained by shame. And so we praise those among the
young who show a proper shame. But no one would
praise an old man for being thus sensitive, inasmuch as
we hold that no man of such an age ought to do any-
thing of which he need be ashamed. Even shame itself,
if it be felt for disgraceful acts, is no mark of a good
And to
character; for a man ought not to do such acts.
urge that some acts are really disgraceful, while others
For we
only offend against convention, is no answer.
ought not to commit either, and then we should have no
occasion for shame. It is, of course, only a bad man
who is disposed to do disgraceful acts. And, conse-
quently, to be so disposed as to feel shame were one
to commit such an act, and to lay claim to any merit on
that account, is absurd. For shame need only be felt
for such acts as are voluntary; and a good man will never
voluntarily do what is disgraceful. And, consequently,
shame is only good upon a certain assumption, namely,
that a man would feel shame if he were to do such or such
an act.
And of no other of the virtues does this rule
hold. For, even although barefacedness and utter absence
of all shame at a disgraceful act be bad, it does not, on
that account, follow that to feel due shame at such an
(84.) act is good. Neither is self-restraint a virtue, unless it
be of a mixed kind; its nature shall be pointed out here-
after. And now we will proceed to the consideration of
justice.
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
115
V.
I. NEXT follows the consideration of Justice and of In-
justice,—with what actions it is that they are concerned,
and in what sense it is that justice is a mean, and what
are the extremes between which that which is just con-
stitutes the mean.
The method of our investigation will
be inductive, as it was in the case of the virtues pre-
viously discussed. Now it is clear that all men under-
stand by justice, a habit such that those who possess it
are disposed to do just acts, and act justly, and desire that
which is just; and so too with injustice, which makes
men act unjustly, and desire that which is unjust. These
statements, then, in this general form, we may assume as
granted. Now, habits differ from faculties, and from the
various sciences. For one and the same science, and one
and the same faculty, can be concerned with contradictory
objects, while with a habit this is never the case. The
habit of health, for instance, produces healthy results
alone, but never unhealthy results. And hence we say
of a man that he walks healthily, when he walks as he
walks who has the habit of health. And so sometimes a
habit is known when we know the contradictory habit,
and sometimes when we know its manifestations. If, for
instance, we are clear as to what is a healthy habit of
body, then we are, ipso facto, clear as to what is an un-
healthy habit; while, again, knowledge of the symptoms
of a healthy habit involves knowledge of the habit, and
knowledge of the habit involves knowledge of the symp-
toms. If, for example, firmness of the tissues be a symp-
tom of health, then flabbiness of the tissues will be a
I 2
116
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
6
symptom of disease, while that which produces firmness
of the tissues will be productive of health. And, again,
(85.) it is generally the case that the various significations of
a pair of contrary terms will correspond to one another.
If, for example, 'just' have a variety of acceptations,
then will unjust' have a corresponding variety. Now
justice and injustice would seem to have a variety of ac-
ceptations; but, because the shades of meaning vary so
slightly, the ambiguity escapes us, as it would not if the
difference were wider. Physical shape, for instance, is a
marked difference, removing all ambiguity between 'key,'
with which to lock a door, and 'key,' the clavicle of men or
animals. Let us then enumerate the various meanings of
the word unjust.' He who violates the law is held
to be unjust, as also is he who grasps at more than his
share, and he who aims at inequality. And hence it is
clear that he will be just who observes the law, and who
aims at equality. Hence, too, that will be just which is
in accordance with the law, and which is equal; and that
will be unjust which transgresses the law, and which is
unequal. And since, moreover, the unjust man grasps at
more than his share, he will be concerned with such
things as are good, but yet not with all even of these,
but with such alone as admit of good fortune or of bad,
and which are always in the abstract good, but yet not
good in certain particular cases. These are the class of
goods that is the object of human prayer and effort:
whereas men ought rather to pray that such things as are
in the abstract good may be good also for themselves,
and to pursue such things only as are in the concrete
good for themselves. But yet the unjust man does not
always take more than his share; for he will sometimes,
in the case of things absolutely bad, take what is less. It is
because the lesser evil is held in a sense to be good, and
because the object of all overreaching is the good, that
1
CHAP. I.]
117
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
the unjust man seems to grasp at more than his share.
But at inequality he always aims, this being the
generic and common attribute of all injustice. Again,
since we said that the transgressor of the law was unjust,
and that he was just who observed the law, it is clear
that all that the law commands is in a sense just. Now
the commands of law are co-extensive with the axioms of
the science of legislation, and we hold that each and
every one of these commands is just. Law, moreover, is
universal in its range; its object being either that which
is for the common interest of all, or that which is for the
interest of the best and noblest, or that which is for the
interest of the powerful few; while it adopts for its
standard either virtue, or some other similar criterion.
And hence, in one acceptation of the term 'just,' we
apply it to all such acts as tend to produce or to preserve
(86.) for the body | politic either happiness as a whole, or any
of its constituents. And hence the law orders us to act
as does the brave man-as, for instance, neither to desert
the ranks, nor to fly from the fight, nor to throw away our
arms; and to act as does the temperate man—as, for
instance, neither to insult our neighbour, nor to lie with
our neighbour's wife; and to act as does the evenly-
tempered man-as, for instance, to abstain from blows,
and from evil-speaking; and so forth, as regards all other
virtues and vices, the law lays down parallel commands
and prohibitions, the merits of which will vary accord-
ingly, as it has been sagely ruled, or made at hap-hazard.
Thus, then, this kind of justice may be regarded as per-
fect virtue,―virtue, that is to say, not viewed abstract-
edly, or as regards the individual alone, but as regards the
individual considered in his relation to his fellow-man.
And hence it comes that justice is oft-times held to be
noblest among the virtues,-
Not even-star, nor morning-star so fair.
118
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
And, again, as the proverb says,
In justice lies the whole of virtue's sum.
And herein especially is it counted as perfect virtue, in
that it consists in the practice of perfect virtue,-perfect,
in that the just man can make use of it for the good of
his fellow-man, and not for his own good alone. For
many there be who can make good use of their virtue in
their own matters, but not towards their fellow-man.
And, hence, Bias would seem to have said well, saying
that,
It is authority that shows the man.
For whosoever is in authority stands ipso facto in relation
to his fellow-man, in that he is a fellow-member of the
body politic. And for this same reason it is that justice
alone among the virtues is held to be another's good,' in
that it alone among the virtues involves a relation to our
fellow-man. For he who is just does that which is to the
interest of another, whether that other be a ruler set over
him, or a fellow-member of the body politic. Worst of
men is he whose wickedness affects not himself alone but
his fellow with him; best of men is he whose virtue
affects not himself alone but his fellow with him; for such
an one has in all scoth a hard task. Justice, then,
after this kind, is not any portion of virtue, but rather
virtue as a whole, whilst the injustice that is opposed to
it is no portion of vice, but rather vice as a whole. And,
moreover, it will be clear from what we have already
(87.) said wherein justice after this kind is distinct from
2.
virtue. It is generically the same, but specifically dis-
tinct; for, in so far as it involves any relation to our
fellow-man, it is justice, but, in so far as it involves such
or such an abstract type of character, it is simply iden-
tical with virtue.
But there is also, as we assert, a justice and a corres-
CHAP. II.]
119
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
ponding injustice, which form a portion only of virtue
and of vice as a whole; and it is of these that we are
now in search. In confirmation of this assertion we may
observe that, in the case of all the other vices, he who
does the bad deed acts unjustly, it is true, but still gains
nothing over and above his share; as, for instance, when
he throws away his shield from cowardice, or speaks evil
of his neighbour from churlishness, or refuses to give
pecuniary assistance from niggardliness. But, when by
the act in question he gains more than his share, his con-
duct is often not referred to any one among these above-
named vices, nor yet to all of them collectively, but still
to a definite vice, inasmuch as we blame his conduct,-
that is to say, to injustice particular. And so there is
another kind of injustice, which is a part of injustice as a
whole, and a corresponding unjust, which is a part of that
unjust as a whole of which the essence is transgression of
the law. Moreover, if a man lie with his neighbour's
wife for the sake of gain, and make a profit thereby,
while another man act thus from desire, spending his sub
stance thereon, and incurring a loss, the latter would be
held to be incontinent rather than overreaching, while the
former would be held to be unjust, but not incontinent;
the difference plainly consisting in his wrongful gain.
Moreover, in the case of all unjust acts that involve no
gain, we always make reference to some definite vice, as
to incontinence if a man has committed adultery, to
cowardice if he has deserted his comrade, to hastiness if
he has committed an assault; but, if he has made a gain,
we refer his act to no one of these vices, but to injustice
alone. And hence it is clear that there is another kind of
injustice, particular, and distinct from injustice as a whole,
but yet called by the same name, since its definition in-
volves the same generic quality. For both the particular
and the universal injustice involve a relation to our
I 20
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
fellow-man; but the former is concerned with honour, or
with property, or with personal security, or with that,
whatever it be, the common name of which embraces all
these, and has primarily to do with the pleasure of gain;
while the latter is concerned with all such actions as dis-
(88. tinguish the good man. | Thus then it is clear that there
are more kinds of justice than one,-that there is, in
short, a justice particular, distinct from virtue as a whole.
It remains to determine its genus and its differentia.
That which was unjust we divided into that which trans-
gressed the law, and that which violated equality; and
that which was just into that which observed the law,
and that which aimed at equality. And the injustice of
which we have already treated is co-extensive with trans-
gression of the law. Now, exactly as we saw that to aim
at inequality and to grasp at more than one's share were
not always identical, but were related as are whole and
part (for when we grasp at more than our share we always
aim at inequality, but when we aim at inequality we do
not always grasp at more than our share), so in like manner
we can see that the unjust and the injustice coextensive
with inequality are not identical with but distinct from the
unjust and the injustice coextensive with illegality, the lat-
ter being the whole of which the former is a part. For this
the particular injustice is a part of injustice as a whole,
and similarly this the particular justice is a part of justice
as a whole. It remains then to treat definitely of parti-
cular justice, and along with it of particular injustice,
and of that which is specially just, and along with it in
like manner of that which is specially unjust. Here,
then, we dismiss further consideration of the justice co-
extensive with virtue as a whole, and of the injustice co-
ordinate with it, the one of which consists in the practice
of virtue as a whole to the benefit of our neighbour, the
other in the practice of vice as a whole to his detriment.
CHA. III.]
I 21
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
2
Nor is there any doubt as to the determination of that
which is just and of that which is unjust with reference
to this kind of justice and of injustice. For, as a rule,
the enactments of legislation are co-extensive with the
acts that characterise virtue as a whole. The law, indeed,
orders us so to rule our life that we may practise each
virtue, and avoid each vice. And, moreover, those prac-
tices that tend to the formation of virtue as a whole are
comprised in the enactments whereby public education is
regulated. With regard, however, to that especial edu-
cation which each one of us requires for his ultimate per-
fection, we must hereafter determine whether or not it
falls within the province of the science of politics, inas-
much as the perfection of the man is not perhaps in all
cases identical with the perfection of the citizen. Of
particular justice, and of the just that is co-extensive with
it, one kind is concerned with the distribution of honour,
or of money, or of all such other things as are shared in
common by the members of the body politic (for in all
these matters one man can in relation to another have
what is an equal or what is an unequal share), and another
kind, the corrective, is concerned with transactions or
contracts. And this latter is again divided into two
(89.) kinds; | —transactions being either voluntary or invol-
untary. Voluntary transactions, or contracts, are such
as are purchase, sale, loan, security, hire, deposit, letting,
and are called voluntary because they originate in an
act of free-will. Involuntary transactions are either
fraudulent, such as are theft, adultery, administration of
noxious drugs, procuring for defilement, kidnapping,
assassination, perjury, or else are forcible, such as are
assault and battery, violent detention, murder, rape,
3. assault with intent to maim, abuse, insult. Now the un-
just man being he who aims at inequality, and the unjust
being that which is unequal, it will be clear that the
122
[Book V.
THIE NICOMACHEAN
And
unequal will imply a mean, and that that mean will be
the equal. For, in any action whatsoever in which a
man can take either more than another man's share, or
less, he can also take an amount exactly equal to it.
Since then the unjust is unequal, the just will be equal.
This, indeed, is too commonly recognised to need proof.
And since, moreover, that which is equal is a mean, that
which is just will also, in a certain sense, be a mean.
Moreover, equality involves at least two terms.
thus it follows that that which is just will be both a mean
and also equal, and that it will involve reference to a
standard, and will concern certain persons, and that in
that it is a mean it will involve two other terms (the
greater, that is to say, and the less), and that in that it is
equal it will again involve at least two terms, and that in
that it is just it will have reference to at least two per-
sons. And, therefore, that which is just will of neces-
sity involve at least four terms; for there will be two
persons at least whose rights will be involved in that
which is just, and two shares at least into which the
matter of the action will be divided. And justice will
involve an equality between the persons concerned
therein identical with the equality between the things;
for, as is the ratio of the things to one another, so too
must be the ratio of the persons. If the persons be in a
ratio of inequality, then their shares must be in the same
ratio. Indeed, contention and dispute always originate
in the fact that those who stand in an equal ratio to one
another have acquired unequal shares, or that those
who stand in an unequal ratio to one another have.
acquired equal shares, either by appropriation or by
distribution. Indeed, this is clear from the very phrase
by such or such a standard.' For all men are agreed
that a just distribution must involve reference to some
standard, but are not agreed as to what that standard
ought to be; democrats asserting that the standard
·
>
CHAP. III.]
123
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
!
ought to be individual freedom, while oligarchs propose
wealth, others noble birth, and true aristocrats personal
merit. And hence, again, that which is just involves a
proportion, or similarity of ratios. For proportion can
obtain not only in abstract number, but in all things that
are capable of a numerical expression. Proportion is an
(90.) equality of | ratios, and involves four terms at least.
Discrete proportion obviously involves four terms; and so
too does continuous proportion, which by repeating one
term makes it do duty for two, as
A: B: B: C
the term B herein being repeated, and such repetition
producing in reality four proportionate terms. Justice,
then, involves four terms at least, between the first and
the second of which there will be a ratio similar to the
ratio between the third and the fourth, inasmuch as the
things in question will have been divided in a ratio simi-
lar to that in which the persons stand to one another.
As then A (Achilles) is to B (Ajax), so must C (the
meed of Achilles) be to D (the meed of Ajax). Then,
alternando, as is A to C, so must B be to D. Then
lastly, componendo, as is A to B, so must A plus C, be to
B plus D; thus,
if A: B :: C: D
then, alternando, A: C:: B: D
and then, componendo, A: B :: A+C: B+D.
This is the connection which the distribution effects, and
which it will effect justly if it effect it in accordance with
this proportion. Thus, then, it is just in a distribution.
to connect A with C and B with D; and thus it is that
that which is just is a mean between the two possible
violations of proportion-that which is proportional being
a mean, and that which is just being proportional. It is
this kind of proportion that mathematicians call geome-
trical. For it is in geometrical proportion that the terms
I24
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
stand to one another in a similar ratio, whether they be
taken severally or jointly. Moreover, this proportion
which we have given above is not continuous, inasmuch
as one and the same term cannot represent both a person
and a thing. Thus then this species of justice consists in
proportion, and the corresponding injustice in the viola-
tion of proportion. Proportion may be violated either
by excess or by defect. And this is what actually takes
place; for, as a matter of fact, he who commits the
wrong act gains more good than he ought, while he who
is wronged obtains less; while with that which is evil
the contrary takes place, the lesser evil as compared with
the greater being reckoned as a good. For the lesser evil
is always more choiceworthy than is the greater; and,
since that which is choiceworthy is ipso facto good, it
follows that that which is the more choiceworthy will be
4. the greater good. The above described is then one kind
of particular justice. There remains yet one other kind,
the corrective, which has its place in transactions or con-
tracts, whether voluntary or involuntary. This kind of
justice differs specifically from the former. For distribu-
tive | justice is always concerned with those goods to
which all the citizens have some claim, and with reference
to these goods it employs the proportion which we have
described. Suppose, for instance, that a public dividend
be announced, the payments made will be proportionate
to the values of the original deposits. And the injustice
which is the contradictory of this kind of justice consists
in a violation of this same proportion. But that which is
just in the case of transactions or of contracts implies
equality, and that which is unjust implies inequality, not
in geometric, however, but in arithmetic proportion.
For it does not matter whether a good man has cheated a
bad, or a bad man a good, or whether a good man has de-
bauched the wife of a bad, or a bad man the wife of a
(91.)
CHAP. IV.]
125
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
C
good. If A has committed and B has suffered a wrong,
or if A has injured and B has been injured, the law only
looks to the actual net result of the injury, and draws
no distinction between the parties. So that this kind of
injustice is one which involves an inequality, which in-
equality the juror endeavours to equalise. For, if A has
struck a blow and B has been struck, or if A has com-
mitted murder and B has been murdered, the amount of
injury involved in the action has been divided into two
unequal shares; and these shares the juror endeavours to
equalise by the infliction of a penalty, so taking some-
thing away from the gain of the injurer. For in such
cases, even although the term may not always be appro-
priate, we, using wide and general terms, speak of‘gain,'
as of 'the gain' of him who has struck the blow, and of
penalty or 'loss,' as of the loss' of him who has been so
struck. But it is only after that the amount of the
damage has been assessed that the terms 'gain' and
'penalty' can be correctly applied. Now that which is
equal is a mean between that which is too much and that
which is too little; while gain and loss or penalty are re-
spectively too much and too little in two distinct ways—
gain implying too much good and too little evil, while
loss implies the exact contrary. The mean between the
two is that which is equal, or, as we call it, just. Hence,
that which is correctively just will aim at the mean be-
tween loss and gain. And so, after a dispute, men be-
take themselves to a juror or justice; and, to betake one's
self to a justice is to betake one's self to that which is
just-a justice being abstract justice embodied in a con-
crete person. And thus they seek for a justice as an im-
personification of the mean (justices, indeed, are called by
´ arbitrators,' a word which etymologically signifies
'middle-men'), on the assumption that, if they obtain
that which is in the mean, they will then obtain that
some,
126
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
which is just. And so, since the justice is the imperson-
(92.) ification of the mean, that which is just will be in the
6
6
mean. And so, too, a justice produces equality in the
same way as if, a line having been divided into two un-
equal segments, one were to take the excess of the
greater segment over and above the exact half of the line
so divided, and were to cut it off from the greater seg-
ment, and to add it to the less. For, when the whole has
been divided into two equal parts, and the parties have
each received an equal share, then men say that they
have that which is their own. That, then, which is equal
after this wise, is the arithmetical mean between that
which is too much and that which is too little. And
hence the word 'just' is used, because it etymologically
signifies that which is bisected;' while a ‘juror,' or
'justice,' signifies one who bisects.' For, if from the
one of two given equal straight lines a given segment be
cut off, and be added to the other, then shall this other
exceed the remainder by twice this given segment.
Whereas, if the given segment be cut off from the one
line, but be not added to the other line, then shall this
other line exceed the remainder by one such segment
only. The other line shall, then, when increased by the
given segment, exceed the original line (which is the
mean) by one such segment; and the mean, again, shall
exceed the remainder by one such segment. And by the
use of this theorem we shall discover what to take away
from him who has more than his neighbour, and what to
add to him who has less. For one must add to him who
has less as much as is that by which the exact mean ex-
ceeds his present share; and one must take from the
greater share that by which the mean falls short of that
share.
A
B
C
D
A
B
F
C
E
CHAP. V.]
127
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
terms
C
Let the lines AA, BB, CC, be all equal to one another.
From AA cut off a given segment AD, and then add
that segment to CC, so that CC is produced to E.
Then shall the entire line CE be greater than AD by
FE, and greater than BB by CE. And this same
theorem holds good of interchange in the arts, which
depend for their very existence upon the fact that
production and consumption are equal to one another
both in quantity and in quality. In fact, the very
•
'gain' and loss are borrowed from the
phraseology of voluntary barter, wherein to gain'
means to conclude barter in possession of more than
one had at first, and to lose' means to conclude in
possession of less; as is the case, for instance, in
buying, and in selling, and in all those other contracts
to which the law, by its recognition, guarantees security.
But when, by buying and selling,' men have got neither
more nor less than they had at first, but exactly the
same, then they say that they have their own,' and
have neither lost nor gained.
And hence corrective
(93) justice is a mean between the gain and the loss which
are involved in involuntary transactions, and is such
that each party has the same both before the transaction
and after it.
5.
C
Now some have held that the one form of all justice
is simply retaliation. This was the opinion of the
Pythagoreans, who defined justice as exact retaliation
without any further qualification.' But the conception
of retaliation will not suit either distributive or correc-
tive justice. And yet they would have it that it is this
that is meant by Rhadamanthine justice ':—
6
When a man suffers that which he has done,
Then upright Justice shows herself.
The reading aùtà di avtŵv and the rendering given above are both
due to Mr. Chandler, of Pembroke College, Oxford,
1.
128
[BOOK V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
But there is a wide difference between the two on many
points. If, for instance, an officer has struck a private,
he ought not to be struck in return; whereas, if a
private has struck an officer, he ought not only to be
struck in return, but also to be in addition punished.
Moreover, a great distinction must be made between
voluntary and involuntary wrongs. But, in all contracts
of sale and of barter, the bond of union between the
parties is a justice of this kind, consisting, however, in
a retaliation made not according to numerical equality,
but according to proportionate value. Indeed, retalia-
tion or reciprocity of proportionate values is the bond of
union of the body politic. For either a man desires to
requite evil with like evil, which not to be allowed to do
is held to be sheer slavery; or else he desires to repay
good with like good, which when men cannot do then no
mutual interchange can take place; and by mutual inter-
change it is that citizens are held together. And hence.
men make to themselves a Temple of the Graces in the
public streets, that they may remember to return good
for good. For gratitude is the especial gift of the
Graces. And a man ought in his turn to minister again
to one who has done him an act of grace, and then him-
self to make a new commencement with such another act
again on his own part. The proportion in which all
return ought to be made is given us by the conjunction
of the diameter with the two sides.

:
B
O
A
B
C
D
Let the line A represent an architect, and the line B
a cobbler, then shall C represent a. house, and D a pair
CHAP. V.]
129
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
ร
of shoes. Now the architect has to receive from the
cobbler a portion of his produce, and to give him in re-
turn a portion of his own produce. If, then, proportionate
equality of value be first secured, and then exact retalia-
tion take place, the justice of which we have spoken will
be the result. But, otherwise, there will be no real
equality, and consequently no permanent bond of union.
(94) For there is no reason why the produce of the one man
should not be more valuable than is that of the other,
and so the two kinds of produce must first be equalised.'
For contracts of exchange are not entered into between.
physician and physician, but between physician and hus-
bandman, or, in a word, between people who differ from
one another, and who are not of the same class, but
whom the bargain ought to place upon equal terms.
And hence it is a necessity to have some kind of common
measure for all such things as are exchanged for one
another. And to meet this want was the origin of a
currency, which serves, as it were, for a mean between
things that differ in value; for it is the one common
measure of all commodities, so that it can measure their
relative excess or deficiency in value, and so determine
how many pairs of shoes are the equivalent in value of a
house, or of a given amount of provisions. As then is
the worth of the architect as compared with the worth of
the cobbler, so must be the number of pairs of shoes as
compared with the house, or with, it may be, the given
amount of provisions; or otherwise all barter and all
intercourse whatever will be an impossibility. And this
cannot be the case unless the two kinds of produce be in
some way equalised. And thus it comes about that we
must, as we have said before, have some one common
measure by which to measure all commodities. And this
1 Omit the words ἔστι δὲ τοῦτο τοσοῦτον καὶ τοιοῦτον as does Andro-
nicus.
K
130
[BOOK V.
THE NICOMACH EAN
common measure is in reality demand, which is the one
bond of union in all contracts. For if men stood in no
need each of the produce of another, or if their mutual
needs were not in that relation of equality in which as a
matter of fact they now are, then there would either be
no exchange at all, or at any rate there would be a
different kind of exchange from that which there now is.
Now a currency is a kind of conventional representative
of demand, and the term 'currency' signifies that its
value is not intrinsic but conventional, and that it is
consequently in our power to adopt a new representative
of value, and so to make the old useless. Exact retalia-
tion then must not take place until after such an
equalisation has been effected that the husbandman is to
the cobbler as is the produce of the cobbler to the pro-
duce of the husbandman. After, however, that the
exchange has once taken place the parties must not
be represented as being still in a relation of mutual
superiority and inferiority, or otherwise the one of the
terms will be having an allowance made for its supe-
riority twice over, and in two distinct ways. When the
result of the contract has been such that each party has
got that which is fairly his, then they are equalised, and
fairly represented in the contract, in that there can result
between them the following relation of equality,
A: B :: C: D
or A × D
Bx C
in which, A being the husbandman, C so much provision,
and B the cobbler, D represents an amount of the produce
of the cobbler equal in value to C. And, unless reci-
procation were to take place after this wise, there would
be no transactions between man and man. And that it
is mutual need that binds together essentially diverse wills
into the incidental unity of contract, is clear from the fact,
CHAP V.]
131
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
(95.) that, when men stand in no need of one another, or even
when the one of two men is in no need of his fellow,
then no exchange takes place between the two; as it
does when one man happens to want that which another
has, as, for instance, wine, and gives for it a portion of
an export of corn, which portion will first have to be
equalised in value to the amount of wine which he
receives. Money, moreover, acts as a security to us for
the possibility of exchange hereafter, should a want arise
which we do not perhaps at present feel; for money
ought to serve as a legal tender for any required com-
modity. It also obeys the same law as do all other
commodities, for its value is not always identical. But
yet its value has, of all values, the greatest tendency to
be permanent. And hence all things ought to have
assigned to them a definite money value; for so barter
will always be possible, and, along with barter, inter-
course between man and man. A currency, then, serves
as a kind of common measure, by means of which one
commodity can have its value expressed in terms of
another, and so be equalised with it. Unless barter
existed there could be no intercourse between man and
man; unless different commodities could be equalised.
there could be no barter; and different commodities
could never be equalised unless there were some common
standard of value. Of course, things so widely different
cannot really be referred to any common standard; but
still, for all practical purposes, we can make such a
reference with sufficient accuracy. There must, there-
fore, be some one common representative of value, which,
as the name 'currency' indicates, will depend upon con-
vention for its use. And, since money is the one com-
mon measure of all values, the use of money enables us
to express the value of any one commodity in terms of
another.
K 2
132
[BOOK V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
A
A
= a house 5 minæ.
B
5 C
B
= 10 minæ.
2
= a bed = 1 mina.
11
Let A, for instance, be a house, B be ten minæ, and C
be a bed. Then, if a house be worth five mine, that is
to say, be equivalent to them in value, A will be equal
to the one-half of B. Further, let C, a bed, be equal
to the one-tenth part of B. It thus becomes clear how
many beds are equal in value to a house-namely, five.
It is, moreover, clear that, before the invention of a
currency, barter took place in this fashion; for it matters
nothing whether one give five beds for a house, or
whether one give the value in money of five beds.
Thus then we have described both that which is un-
just, and that which is just. And from our descrip-
tion it will follow clearly that just treatment will be a
mean between doing wrong and suffering wrong. For to
do wrong is to take more than one's share, and to suffer
wrong is to get less than one's share. And justice is
a mean state, not in the same way as are the virtues
which we have before described, but in that it aims at
producing that which is in the mean; whereas injustice
aims at producing one or the other of two extremes.
Moreover, justice is a habit in virtue of which the just
man is said to be disposed to do deliberately and of free
purpose that which is just, and to make a distribution,
whether between himself and another, or between two
(96.) others, not such that he himself secures the larger
share of advantage and his neighbour the less, and of
disadvantage the exactly contrary; but rather such that
he only secures for himself that which is his equal share
according to a fair proportion, and observes a similar
rule in his decision as arbiter between two claimants.
Injustice, on the other hand, aims at producing that
which is unjust, and which consists in such an excess or
CHAP. VI.]
133
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
defect, as the case may be, either of the advantages or of
the disadvantages, as to violate these rules of proportion.
And hence injustice is both an excess and a defect, in
that it aims at producing both an excess and a defect,-
in one's own case, that is to say, an excess of that which
is in the abstract advantageous and a deficiency of that
which is disadvantageous; while when the unjust man
acts as arbiter between two claimants, the character of
his act as a whole obeys the same rule, but the particular
violation of proportion that takes place may be to the
interest of either of the two parties to the suit. In fine, in
an unjust act, to get less than one's share is to be wronged,
and to get more than one's share is to commit a wrong.
Concerning particular justice, then, and with it par-
ticular injustice, and concerning the nature of each respec-
tively, the foregoing may be taken as our account; as also
of that which is just and of that which is unjust univer-
6. sally. But, inasmuch as a man need not ipso facto be
unjust in that he does an unjust act, shall we inquire what
are the several kinds of unjust acts,-such, for example,
as theft, or adultery, or highway robbery,-the commis-
sion of which in each case ipso facto stamps a man as
unjust? Surely this is not the distinction which we
require. A man might, for example, lie with his neigh-
bour's wife, and do so knowingly, yet not deliberately at
all, but in a fit of uncontrollable passion. Such a man
would commit an unjust act indeed, but yet would not on
that account be unjust; much as a man need not be a
thief, but yet may have committed a theft, or need not be
an adulterer, but yet may have committed adultery; and
in other instances the same rule will hold good. Now we
have already stated how retaliation and justice are con-
nected, and we must further remember that that of which
we are in search is justice in its widest and most usual ac-
ceptation,—justice, that is to say, such as it exists between
134
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
fellow-members of the body politic, who lead life in com-
mon, with a view to the perfect satisfaction of all their
wants, and who are further free, and also equal,-if not
equal man to man, yet at least proportionately equal,
when their several and respective claims have been re-
ferred to one common standard. Where men do not
stand in this relation to one another, then there is for
such no justice political in their mutual dealings, but only
a certain spurious justice, falsely so called, in so far as it
may resemble the true justice. Justice cannot exist un-
less there be a law between man and man; and the very
existence of law implies the possibility of wrong, inas-
much as an adjudication is nothing more than a distinction
between that which is right and that which is wrong.
Now, where wrong is possible, there one can always com-
(97) mit a wrong; | but to simply commit a wrong does not in
all cases prove the presence of wrong;-wrong in its
strict sense being to allot to oneself the larger share of
what is abstractedly good, and the smaller share of what is
abstractedly evil. From these considerations it is that
we do not allow an individual man to rule, but only a
general principle, lest the individual should rule for his
own good alone, and so prove himself a despot. Indeed
the sole duty of a ruler is to keep watch over that which
is just, and so by implication over that which is equal.
Now, if he be a just man, he will by thus ruling gain
nothing for himself. He will not allot to himself a larger
share of what is abstractedly good, unless his merits de-
serve such a proportion. He acts, that is to say, in the
interest of others; whence comes the common definition
of justice, which we have given before, as another man's
good. He must then have allotted to him a reward of
some kind.
This reward will take the shape of honour
and dignity. And whoso are not content with these,
they make themselves despots. But justice between
CHAP. VII.]
135
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
One
Now
master and slave, or between father and son, is not the
same as is justice political, but only like unto it.
cannot wrong that which is absolutely one's own.
one's property, and equally with it one's son (as long as
he is only of a certain age, and so has not yet separated
himself from his parents), is, as it were, an integral por-
tion of one's self. And, since no man can deliberately
purpose to do himself an injury, it follows that for a man
to commit a wrong against himself is an impossibility.
Justice and injustice political have consequently no place
in the relations of a man either to his children or to his
slaves. For justice political is dependent upon law, and
so can, as we have already said, exist amongst those alone
whose mutual relations are naturally regulated by law,
that is to say amongst those who can both hold rule and
submit to rule upon equal terms. Hence justice has much
more place between a man and his wife, than between a
man and his children, or his property. This kind is the
justice economic-a kind which, like the justice between.
father and son, is not to be confounded with justice poli-
7. tical. Justice political may be subdivided into two kinds,
the natural and the conventional. The natural kind is
that which is in all places equally valid, and which,
whether it be accepted or whether it be rejected of men,
will equally be just; while the conventional kind is that
which might originally have been determined either way
with equal justice, but which, when once it has been deter-
mined, is then no longer indifferent; as, for example, that
the ransom for a prisoner of war should be one mina, and
that sacrifice should be made with a she-goat, and not
with two sheep; and, in addition, all bills passed to meet
special and particular occasions, as that sacrifice should
be made to Brasidas, and all resolutions of the general
assembly. Some, indeed, there are who hold that
all justice whatsoever is of this kind, inasmuch as that
136
[BOOK V
THE NICOMACHEAN
:
which exists by nature is-say they-unalterable, and
everywhere alike holds equally good; as, for instance, is
the case with fire, which burns here exactly as it burns
(98.) among the | Persians; while that which is just experience
shows to vary.
Now the matter is not exactly as they
state it, although to a certain extent it is. Amongst the
Gods, perhaps, that which is just may be absolutely im-
mutable. Amongst men, however, there is a kind of
natural justice, although all human justice is conceivably
liable to change. But still the distinction between that.
which is natural and that which is not natural none the
less holds good. And it is self-evident what kind of
things contingent exist by nature, and what kind by posi-
tive law and by convention,--although both alike are con-
ceivably variable. The distinction is one which can be
drawn in all other similar cases. The right hand, for
instance, is by nature stronger than the left; and yet it is
none the less possible for men to be ambidextrous. That
kind of justice which depends wholly upon convention and
expediency may be compared to a standard of measure.
For moist and dry measures are not of equal capacity in
all places alike, but are larger among buyers and smaller
among sellers.
And so, in like manner, is it with that
justice which is not by nature, but of men; for it is not
in all places alike, as neither are forms of government,—
albeit that there is by nature but one form of government,
which ought to be in all places alike the best. Moreover,
each rule of justice and of law is as a universal which con-
tains under itself many particulars. For the actions of
men are many, while each rule is but one, for it is ex-
pressed in universal terms. Moreover, we must distinguish
between that which is wrong in fact, or objectively, and
that which is wrong in principle, or subjectively; and
between that which is right in fact and that which is
right in principle. That which in principle is wrong, is
CHAP. VIII.]
137
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
so either by nature or by convention. And this same,
when put into actual practice, is then a wrong in fact;
but, before it has been put into practice, is not such,
but is only a wrong in principle. And of acts of
right also the same rule holds equally good. The phrase
' act of righteousness' is, however, the more general; the
term act of right' being usually restricted to the righting
of an actual wrong. And, as regards particular acts of
righteousness and of wrong, what kinds of them there are,
and how many, and with what things they are concerned,
8. we must consider hereafter. That which is just, and that
which is unjust, is, then, such as we have said; and to act
justly or unjustly consists in the doing of such acts volun-
tarily. For, when a man does such acts involuntarily,
he neither acts justly nor yet unjustly, save only inciden-
tally, the act itself, in such cases, being just or unjust
only incidentally. Indeed, the justice or injustice of an
act is determined by the question whether it be voluntary
(99.) or not. When it is voluntary, then only do we attach
blame to it, and then only is it properly an unjust act.
And so an act may answer to the abstract definition of
injustice, and yet not be, ipso facto, an unjust act, unless
it be also voluntary. A voluntary act we define, as before,
as one which is at the discretion of the agent, and which
he, the agent, does with full knowledge of the person
thereby affected, and of the means employed, and of the
result (as, for instance, when a man knows whom he
strikes, and with what he strikes him, and what will be
the effect of the blow), and which in each several case has
been done neither incidentally, nor under compulsion.
If, for instance, A seizes the hand of B, and with it
strikes C, then B acts under compulsion, and not volun-
tarily, inasmuch as the act was not done at his own dis-
cretion. Or if, again, the man whom you have struck
should happen to have been your father, and you were to
138
[BOOK V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
have been aware that he was a man, or that he was one
of the bystanders, but were to have been ignorant that
he was your father, you would then have done wrong only
incidentally. And with regard to the result of the act, or
indeed, to the act itself as a whole, the same distinctions
may be drawn. Wherever, in a word, we are ignorant of
what we do, or wherever we are not ignorant, but yet the
act itself is not at our own discretion, but is compulsory,
what is done is involuntary. We are, for example, con-
scious of many purely physical acts and feelings, which
are neither voluntary, nor yet strictly involuntary,—as
of growing old, for instance, or of the act of death. That,
then, which is unjust can, equally with that which is just,
be done incidentally as well as directly. For, if a trustee
restore a deposit under compulsion and from fear, he can-
not be said to do that which is just, or, in other words, to
act justly, directly, but only incidentally. And, in like
manner also, he who, under compulsion, and against his
will, refuses to restore a deposit, can only incidentally be
said to act unjustly, and to do that which is unjust. Of
our voluntary acts, again, some we do deliberately, and
others not. We do deliberately all such acts as we have
planned beforehand; acts not previously planned not
being deliberate. In the intercourse of man with man
three kinds of wrong can occur. A wrong done in igno-
rance is usually known as an act of negligence; as,
for example, when the act has affected some other person.
than the agent expected, or when the act itself has proved
to be other than he expected, or when its instrument or
its result has proved to be such,-as, for instance, when
A had not intended to strike B, or did not think that he
had used such or such a weapon, or did not think that B
was such or such a person, or did not think that the result
of the blow would be such as it was the result proving
to be other than he had expected; as if, for instance, he
had not intended to wound his man, but only to touch.
CHAP. VIII.]
139
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
him; or had not intended to wound this man, but another;
(100.) or had not intended to wound him in so deadly a
manner. When, then, the injury which has been inflicted
is contrary to ordinary expectation, it is an accident.
But, when it might have fairly been expected, but yet has
involved no evil purpose, it is an act of negligence :—the
distinction between negligence and accident being that, in
the former, the efficient cause of the injury is the agent,
who is, consequently, responsible; while, in accident, the
efficient cause is extraneous. But, when a man acts
knowingly, indeed, but still not from premeditation, then
his act is, in itself, a wrong. Such are all those acts into
which men are betrayed through anger, and through
other unavoidable and purely physical emotions. In such
cases a man injures his fellow, it is true, and so does a
wrong; and the act so done is a wrong. But the doer of
such an act need not be, on that account, unjust and
criminal. The wrong done did not originate in any
criminality on the part of the agent. It is only when the
wrong is done deliberately that the doer of it is unjust and
criminal. And hence it is that assaults committed in
anger are rightly decided not to be of malice aforethought,
for they do not originate in the volition of the man who
has been angered, but rather in that of the man who so.
angered him. Moreover, the question at issue is not one
of the facts of the case, but of the rights of it,-for anger
is provoked by what one conceives to have been a pre-
vious wrong to one's self. We are not here, as in civil
contracts, concerned with a question of fact. In such
cases one of the two parties must be a rogue, unless the
dispute originate in forgetfulness. But here the fact of
the injury done is admitted, the only question raised
being as to the rights of the case. Now, when a man has
deliberately committed a breach of the peace, he cannot
have so acted unconsciously. And hence it is that, in
cases such as those of which we are speaking, he who has
140
[BOOK V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
9.
(101.)
been assaulted holds that he has been wronged; while he
who under provocation so assaulted him, holds that the
wrong is justifiable. Of course, in all those cases in which
a man has deliberately injured another, he has committed a
wrong. And it is for the commission of wrongs of this latter
kind alone, wherein fair proportion or equality has been
deliberately set at naught, that men are held to be unjust.
And so, too, in like manner, that man alone is held to be
just who deliberately pursues just dealing. And he
alone properly pursues just dealing who thus acts of his
own free will. Of involuntary wrongs, on the other
hand, some are excusable, and some are not. For, when
men do a wrong, not only in ignorance, but actually from
ignorance, their offence is excusable. But, where the
wrong done does not actually originate in the ignorance
of the agent, but is only done in ignorance,-which igno-
rance has been brought on by some passion neither natural
nor human,—then it is inexcusable.
A further doubt arises, whether our determinations
in respect of doing wrong and of suffering wrong are
sufficient. And, first of all, is the statement of Euri-
pides, inconceivable as it appears, yet conceivable?
I slew my mother,―I,—the tale is brief;
I with my will, she hers,-else hers, not mine.
Can we, that is to say, really suffer wrong with our own
will, or can we not; and is not rather all suffering of
wrong involuntary, exactly as all wrong doing must be
voluntary? And is this rule universally applicable?
Must, that is to say, all suffering of wrong whatsoever
be involuntary, in the same way as all wrong doing is
voluntary; or may some suffering of wrong be voluntary,
and some not? And with regard to right treatment also
a like doubt arises; for all just action must be voluntary.
Read KaTÉKтav with Coraes.
CHAP. IX.]
14I
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
And hence, in so far as the voluntariness or the non-
voluntariness of the act is concerned, justice and in-
justice, both in agent and in patient, ought to be
symmetrically opposed. But yet it seems inconceivable
that all those who submit to just treatment should do so
voluntarily; for some men certainly submit to just treat-
ment against their will. And a further doubt is possible,
—namely, whether every one who has a wrong done to
him is really thereby wronged, or whether the suffering
of wrong may not have its voluntariness decided by the
analogy of that of the doing of wrong. For, in the case
of just dealing, both agent and patient may be concerned
with what is just only incidentally. And the same rule
clearly holds good of what is unjust. For he who does
that which answers to the abstract definition of the un-
just does not in all such cases cominit a wrong, nor does
he who suffers that which answers to the abstract defini-
tion of the unjust always suffer a wrong. And the same
rule holds good of just treatment both in agent and in
patient. No one, that is to say, can suffer a wrong,
unless another has intentionally done him a wrong, or
experience just treatment, unless another intentionally
treat him justly. And, again, since wrong doing simply
consists in voluntarily doing an injury to another,—
' voluntarily meaning, knowing to whom the wrong was
done, and by what means, and in what manner, and
since the incontinent man voluntarily injures himself;-
it follows that he is voluntarily injured, and hence that
it is possible for a man to wrong himself. And, indeed,
the question, whether it is possible for a man to wrong
himself, is one of the points that remain to be raised.
Moreover, a man might through his own incontinence be
injured by another person, who might also be acting
voluntarily. And thus it would be possible to be
wronged with one's own will. The answer is that our
142
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
C
'
definition of wrong doing is not yet perfect, but that to
the words knowing to whom the wrong was done, and
and by what means, and in what manner,' we must
further add the words and that it was against the
patient's will.' For, although a man may indeed be
injured voluntarily, and so may suffer treatment which
answers to the abstract definition of wrong, yet no man
can be actually wronged with his own consent.
For no
man ever wishes to be wronged,—no, not even the incon-
tinent man: for he in reality acts against his own will.
(102.) No man, indeed, can really wish for that which he does.
not think to be good; and even the incontinent man does
not act as he knows he ought to act. Even he who
makes a losing gift, such as that which Homer tells us
that Glaucus made to Diomed,-
Golden for brass,-a hundred beeres for nine,-
even he is not wronged. It depends upon himself, it is
true, whether he shall make the gift or whether he shall
not, but it does not depend upon himself alone whether
or not he shall be wronged; for, for him to be wronged,
there must first be some one else to wrong him.
Thus, then, as regards the being wronged, it is clear
that it can never be voluntary. There remain, how-
ever, yet two more of the questions which we proposed;
namely, whether it is he who makes the unfair award, or
he who receives it, who commits the wrong; and also
whether it is possible for a man to wrong himself. For
if, in the case of the first question, the former of the two
assumptions be true, and it is he who makes the unfair
award who really does the wrong, and not he who
receives it, then it will follow that, if a man knowingly
and willingly award to another a larger share than to
himself, he will thereby do himself a wrong. And thus
it is that the modestly-minded are held to do; indeed,
the equitable man may be said to be one who seeks that
CHAP. IX.]
143
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
which is less than his fair share. But, then, is this an
adequate account? May not such a man obtain, per-
haps, a larger share of another kind of good, as of repu-
tation, for instance, or of that which is good in the
highest sense of the word? Moreover, the very defini-
tion of wrong doing resolves our difficulty. For no man
can suffer a wrong against his own will. And so, in the
case in question, he does not suffer a wrong, but only a
loss. Moreover, it is clear that it is he who makes the
unjust award, and not he who, in the given case, receives
it, who does the wrong. For it is not he to whom that
attaches which answers to the abstract definition of in-
justice, but only he who voluntarily commits an act of
such a kind, who can be properly said to commit a
wrong. Now an act is done voluntarily by him in whom
it actually originates. And, in the case in question, the
wrong originates in the volition of him who makes the
award, and not in that of him who receives it. And,
again, inasmuch as there are many senses in which we
may be said to do a thing,-a lifeless instrument, for
instance, may be said to kill a man, or another man's
hand, or a slave acting under orders to assassinate; so
he who receives the unjust award does not indeed commit
a wrong, but yet none the less does that which answers to
the abstract definition of wrong. And, again, if the
award was made in ignorance, the judge has not done
that which is wrong in the eye of the law, nor is his
decision in this sense unjust. But yet unjust, in a
certain sense, it is; for legal justice is one thing, and
natural justice is another. But, if the unjust award was
(103.) made knowingly, then the judge must himself have |
made an unfair gain, in the shape either of a gratuity
from him whom the verdict favoured, or of vengeance.
wreaked upon the other party to the suit. Exactly as is
the case when one receives a share in the profits of a
wrong, so here he who gives an unjust verdict, whether
144
[BOOK V.
THIE NICOMACIIEAN
from cupidity or from revenge, may be said to make an
unjust gain. In the case, for instance, of receiving a
share in the profits of a wrong, he who unjustly awarded
the field which was in dispute, may have received, not a
portion of the field itself, but the equivalent in money of
such a portion. Now men hold that it is always in their
power to commit or not to commit a wrong, and that so
it is an easy matter to be just. But this is not really
the case. For, albeit that to lie with one's neighbour's
wife, and to smite one's neighbour, and to actually
deliver a bribe, are easy matters, and to do them or not
to do them rests with a man's self; yet, to do these acts,
and to be at the same time in a certain definite state of
mind with reference to them, is no easy matter, and does
not rest with a man's self. For the same reason it is
that men hold that it requires no great wisdom to know
what is just and what is unjust, because it is no difficult
matter to understand what the laws order. But that
which is ordered by the laws is not, as such, just; it is
only just incidentally; it does not, indeed, become dis-
tinctly just, until the act has been done, or the award
has been made in a certain definite spirit. And for a
man to act in this spirit is a more difficult matter than it
is for him to acquire a knowledge of what is good for
health. In the case of medicine, for instance, it is easy
to know what is honey, and what is wine, and what is
hellebore, and what is cautery, and what is excision.
But to know how all these ought to be applied with a
view to health, and to whom, and when, amounts, in fact,
to being a physician. And hence, too, it is that men are
led to suppose that the just man is capable of unjust
equally with just acts, in that the just man is able to do
each and all of these acts, not only no less, but, perhaps,
even more than is the unjust man. For the just man
can lie with his neighbour's wife, and can smite his
CHAP. X.]
145
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
neighbour, much as the brave man can also fling away
his shield and take to flight in any direction that comes
first. But, to play the coward, or to commit a wrong,
does not consist in merely doing these particular acts
(except in so far as it incidentally involves the doing of
them), but in doing them with a certain definite frame of
mind,—exactly as for the physician to make sound and
for the patient to be sound does not consist in the mere
use of the knife or of drugs, or in the mere abstinence
from their use; but rather in such use, or in such
abstinence, under certain definite conditions. In fine,
just acts are possible among those alone who partake of
things that are in the abstract good, and who can have
of such things either more or less than their fair share.
For some beings, as, perhaps, the Gods, cannot have
more than their share of good; while others, again,—the
incurably depraved,-find no share of good things a
(104.) blessing; but to them all good things whatsoever | are a
Others, again, there are for whom a certain
amount of good things is to be desired. And thus we
can see that justice is a human matter.
IO.
curse.
Next in order we must treat of equity or goodness,
and of that which is equitable or good, and of the rela-
lations between equity and justice, and between that
which is equitable and that which is just. Upon con-
sideration, we shall see clearly that, while, upon the
one hand, justice and equity are not absolutely identical,
yet, on the other hand, they are not specifically distinct.
At times, for instance, we praise that which is equitable,
and with it the equitable man; and so transfer the name,
together with the praise which it implies, to other objects
which we had usually called good in the ordinary sense
of the word; proving thereby that we hold that the
more equitable is an act the better it becomes. And
yet, at times, it would seem, upon reflection, incon-
L
{
146
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
ceivable that the equitable, although it has been contra-
distinguished from the just, should yet call for praise.
For if, on the one hand, the just be distinct from the
equitable,' then it must follow that either justice is not
good, or else equity is not good. While, if, on the other
hand, both justice and equity be good, then they must be
identical. Such, or nearly such, then, are the grounds
of this difficulty concerning equity. And yet all the
premises in question are, to a certain extent, true, and
in no way self-contradictory. For the real truth is that
the equitable is superior to the just, as being an inten-
sified form of the just, and not as being distinct from the
just in kind. The just and the equitable are thus iden-
tical, each being good, but the equitable the best.
The real source of the difficulty is that the equitable is
just, not in that it agrees with positive law, but in that
it is a rectification of it. And this is possible, because
all positive law is expressed in general propositions,
whereas cases can occur to which general propositions
are inapplicable. Wherever, then, on the one hand, an
abstract and general rule is a political necessity; and,
on the other hand, such a rule is too abstract to be prac-
tically true; there the law is content if its applications
be upon an average correct, although aware that, within
certain limits, an error has been made. Nor must the
law herein be accounted wrong, inasmuch as the error
originates neither in the law nor in those who framed it,
but rather in the nature of the cases to meet which it
was framed.
For all matter of action is in its very
nature such that abstract rules when applied to it are
only true upon an average. Whensoever, then, the
terms of the law are abstract and universal, and the
particular case cannot in consequence be brought under
1 Read ἢ τὸ ἐπιεικὲς οὔ, δίκαιον εἰ ἄλλο, with Michelet.
CHAP. X.]
147
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
them, then it is but right, where the framer of the law
(105.) falls short from over abstractness, to correct | this error,
and to supply that decision which he would have given
himself, had he been present at the case in question,
and which he would have comprised in his law, had he
foreseen the case. And so, consequently, that which is
equitable is also just, and is superior to certain forms of
the just,-not, that is to say, to that which is absolutely
just, but to that which, because just in the abstract, errs
in the particular. The essence, in a word, of equity is
that it should correct positive law wheresoever such
positive law fails from its over abstractness. And hence,
too, it is that all matters indiscriminately do not come.
within the range of positive law, because there are certain
cases for which it is impossible to lay down a positive
law in general terms, and for which we consequently
require a special and particular enactment. For that
which is in itself irregular requires an irregular rule,
exactly as the Lesbian walls of uneven masonry require
a leaden rule by which to measure their actual length.
For, much as such a rule is not inflexible, but adapts it-
self to the configuration of the stones, so does the special
enactment adapt itself to the particular case for which.
it is framed. Thus, then, it is clear what the equitable
is, and that it is also just, and moreover that it is
superior to certain forms of the just. And from the
nature of the equitable the nature of the equitable man is
also clear. For whosoever fixes his purpose upon such
acts as we have described, and does them, and does not
wrest the letter of the law to his neighbour's wrong, but
rather aims at less than his legal right, although he has
the law at his back,-such a man as this is equitable,
and his habit of mind is equity; which equity is a
species of justice, and not a habit of mind specifically
distinct from justice.
!
L 2
148
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
II.
As regards the question whether a man can wrong
himself or not, the answer to it is clear from what we
have already said. For, in the first place, one class of
just acts consists of those actions which are enjoined by
the law as being co-extensive with virtue as a whole. The
law, for instance, nowhere bids a man kill himself; and
that which the law does not bid, it by implication forbids.
And when, too, a man in violation of the law injures
another, and that not by way of just retaliation, and does
so willingly (knowing, that is to say, whom he injures,
and with what instrument and how), that man commits a
wrong. He, then, who from rage kills himself, does so
willingly, and in violation of right reason, and, further,
does that which the law does not allow, and so commits a
wrong. But whom does he wrong? Surely it is the
State which he wrongs, and not himself. For he suffers
the injury in question willingly; whereas no man can be
wronged with his own will. And hence it is that it is
the State which punishes him, and that civil infamy at-
taches to him who kills himself, on the ground that he
thereby wrongs the State. And, in the second place, it is
impossible for a man to wrong himself in the sense in
which he is a wrongdoer who commits acts of what we
have defined as particular injustice, and who yet is not
entirely and absolutely a bad man. These two kinds of
(106.) injustice are | distinct from one another. For he who is
unjust in this, the particular sense, is a bad man, much as
the coward is a bad man,--bad, that is to say, not abso-
lutely and entirely, but only in a particular and limited
sense.
But yet, even in this especial sense, he does not
wrong himself. Were this so, then the same person could
have the same thing both taken from him and given to him;
and this is impossible,-justice and injustice always involv-
ing more persons than one. Moreover, a wrong must.
be voluntary, and deliberate, and aggressive,-by which
CHAP. XI.]
149
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
latter qualification we understand that he who, because he
has suffered an injury, inflicts a similar injury upon his
aggressor, is not generally held to commit a wrong. Now
here, in the case in question, a man inflicts an injury upon
himself. He therefore both suffers and inflicts the same
wrong. And, again, could a man wrong himself, then
would it be possible to be wronged with one's own will.
In addition, it may be argued that no man can commit
specific wrong without doing some specifically wrong act,
and that no man can, for instance, commit an adultery
with his own wife, or a burglary upon his own premises,
or a larceny of his own goods. But, after all, the most
comprehensive answer to the question is to be found in
the definition of justice and of injustice, by which it is
settled that to suffer wrong cannot be voluntary. It is,
moreover, clear that to suffer wrong and to do wrong are
both bad; for the one is to obtain less, and the other is to
obtain more than that which is the fair mean; and herein
we may compare the analogies of health in medicine, and
of condition in training. But, still, to do wrong is morally
the worst. For to do wrong involves conscious vice, and
so is blameable. And the vice which it involves will be
either complete and absolute, or approximately such; for
all voluntary injuries do not imply conscious wrong-doing,
While, on the other hand, to suffer wrong involves no
such consciousness of vice and of injustice. In itself,
then, and apart from its consequences, to suffer wrong is
less bad than to do wrong. But the suffering of wrong
may none the less incidentally lead to results far worse
than follow from the doing of wrong. All, however, that
is incidental strict science must ignore. Medicine, for
instance, asserts that a pleurisy is a greater danger to
health than is a stumble; and yet a stumble may none the
less incidentally lead to worse results than does a pleurisy
as when, for instance, a man stumbles, and then, as the
1
150
[Book V.
THE NICOMACHEAN
indirect result of the fall, is captured by the enemy, and
put to death. Lastly, by a metaphorical or analogical use
of language, we may be allowed to speak of justice as sub-
sisting, not between a man and himself, but between the
man as a whole and certain parts of his nature. But yet
it will not be every kind of justice that can thus subsist,
but only that justice which can subsist between master
and slave, or between a father and his family; for a
relation of this kind it is that exists between the rational
and the irrational parts of the soul. And from a con-
(107.) sideration of this fact it has been held that a man can |
wrong himself, inasınuch as the possession of these distinct
parts involves the capability of a treatment that runs
counter to one's own desires. And hence it has been
said that justice can subsist in a certain relation between
these two parts of the soul, analogous to that between
ruler and ruled.
Concerning justice, then, and with it the other moral
virtues, such are the determinations which we have to
advance.
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
151
kh
VI.
I. Now, since we have already said that a man ought
to choose the mean, and not the excess or the defect,
and that the mean is as right reason orders, it remains
to determine what this right reason is. In all the
moral habits of which we have spoken (as indeed in
all others), there is a definite mark at which he who
acts with reason aims, exactly as one aims and shoots
at the centre of the target; there is a definite limit to
the mean, which mean lies, as we have said, between
excess and defect, and is determined by right reason,
But this account, although true, is yet not sufficiently
definite. For, although, in all practical applications
of any scientific rule, it is true to say that we must
neither be over accurate, nor yet careless, but must
aim at that mean which right reason prescribes, yet the
mere knowledge of this rule leads to nothing fur-
ther. What, for instance, would a man know about
the treatment of the body, if merely told to apply all
that medicine orders, and to apply it as the physician
prescribes? And, consequently, in describing the mental
states we must not rest content with such a mere abstract
truth, but must further seek a definite statement as to
what this right reason is, and what are the limits which
it prescribes.
In our division of the virtues, we said that some of
them were moral, and others intellectual. Having
fully treated of the moral virtues, we will now pro-
ceed to discuss the others; and our discussion must
be prefaced by certain statements concerning the soul.
--
152
[BOOK VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
(108.) We have already | said that the soul may be divided
into two parts the rational, and the irrational; and
we will now make a similar division of the rational
part. We will, that is to say, assume that the rational
soul may be divided into two parts-the one that deals
with such truths as are universal and necessary, the
other that deals with such as are contingent. For, to cor-
respond with object-matters that are specifically distinct,
nature must have framed parts of the soul that are
specifically distinct: since their knowledge of their re-
spective object-matter cannot but depend upon a certain
similarity to, and affinity with it. These two parts we will,
respectively, call the speculative, and the deliberative.
For deliberation means nothing more than an analysis of
an end into its means; and no one attempts such an analysis
in matter which is universal and necessary. Thus, then, to
one of the two parts of the rational soul we apply the term.
deliberative.' It remains to determine what is the best
formed state or habit of which these two parts are re-
spectively capable; for this it is that will be the highest
specific excellence, or virtue, of each. Moreover, the
excellence of each thing cannot be considered except as
2. in relation to that special work which it has to do. Now,
of all the five parts of the soul, there are but three which
are in any way concerned with either moral action or
with truth, to wit, the sensitive or perceptive, the
rational, and the appetitive. But in the sensitive part
alone moral action never originates; as is shown by the
fact that beasts, although they possess perception, yet
have no share in moral action. Now, assertion and ne-
gation in reason correspond to pursuit and avoidance in
impulse; and, consequently, inasmuch as moral virtue is
a formed-state of purpose, and purpose is impulse
followed by deliberation, it results that, if our purpose is
to be good, not only must our analysis of the end into its
6
CHAP. II.]
153
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
¦
1
13
means be correct, but also our impulse towards the end
must be right, and, moreover, that the deliberation
must give its assent to that at which the impulse aims.
Such, then, is the reasoning, and such is the truth in-
volved in moral action. For the speculative reason, on
the other hand, which does not enter into our analysis
either in action or in production, it is abstract truth and
abstract untruth which form the standard of good and of
bad. So that, while truth as a whole is the object of the
entire rational part of our soul, the especial object of
that part which deals with reason as involved in action,
is true analysis into means correspondent with good im-
pulse towards an end. Thus, then, all action originates
in purpose, that is to say, in the choice of means to a
given end, not in the mere conception of, or impulse
towards that end-purpose consisting in impulse towards
an end, followed by an analysis of that end into its
means. And purpose, consequently, involves reason,
(109.) that is to say a process of reasoning, no less than it in-
volves a determinate moral character, to which the im-
pulse will correspond. Free action, whether for good or
for bad, is inconceivable, without, on the one hand,
reason, and, on the other, a certain definite bent of
character. And, in like manner, action never originates
in mere analysis, but only in that analysis of a desired
end into its means which all action involves. Hence
comes our determination to act, even in the analytic pro-
cesses of art. For every artist has, in the execution of
his work, an ulterior end in view; so that the work
itself is not an absolute end, but is subordinate to and de-
pendent upon a something beyond itself. But moral
action is, in itself, an absolute end,-the end of the
action being nothing more than that it should be done
well, and the impulse having no further aim than this.
Hence it follows that purpose may be defined either as
154
[Book VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
3.
reasoning resultant upon impulse, or as impulse coupled
with reasoning. And in this sense and thus it is, that
man's acts originate in himself. Hence, moreover, pur-
pose has nothing to do with the past: no one, for
example, purposes to have sacked Ilium.
For an
analysis into means is not applicable to that which is
past, but only to that which is in the future, and, conse-
quently, in our power. What is past cannot possibly be
other than it is, as Agathon has well said, saying—
One thing alone not even God can do,
To make undone whatever hath been done.
Thus, then, each of the rational parts of our soul has,
for its especial province, a specific kind of truth. And,
consequently, the highest excellence of each part will be
that particular formed state, or habit, by which each,
respectively, will best arrive at truth.
Here, then, we will resume, and commence an ac-
count of the intellectual habits. Now, the soul arrives
at truth, whether affirmative or negative, by the aid of
five instruments,-by the aid of art, of deductive science,
of prudence, of philosophy, and of induction. Supposi-
tion and opinion are omitted from the list, for they can
lead to error no less than to truth. What is to be un-
derstood by demonstrative science will be at once clear,
if we are to use our words in their strictest sense, and to
avoid being misled by any transferred application of
terms. We all hold that the object-matter of science is
necessary; for, of matter which is not necessary we can
predicate nothing with certainty beyond the actual limits
of our experience. The object-matter of science will,
consequently, be necessary, and its truths will be immu-
table. For truths necessary in themselves, not neces-
sary ex hypothesi, are always immutable; and the objects.
(110.) of immutable truth | are unaffected by the phenomenal
1
CHAP. IV.]
155
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
4.
changes of becoming or of ceasing to be. Moreover,
science is, in all cases, inferential: its truths can be
taught and learnt. Now all inference involves some
previous knowledge, as has been pointed out in the
Analytics, and will, in its form, be either inductive or
deductive. Universal propositions presuppose a previous
induction; deduction proceeds from these universal pro-
positions. Deduction, therefore, will ultimately pre-
suppose, as its premisses, truths which cannot be arrived
at by deduction itself; and which must, consequently, be
the result of induction. Science, in fine, is a habit of
deductive demonstration; and, to complete its definition,
all those determinations must be added that are given in
the Analytics. A man, strictly speaking, has scientific
knowledge, only when he has a certain specific kind of
belief--a belief, that is to say, in conclusions deduced
from premisses of which he is assured. If he be not
better assured of his premisses than he is of his conclu-
sion, then his knowledge is scientific at best but inciden-
tally it has the deductive form without the deductive
certainty. Let this, then, be accepted as our definition
of science.
:
Matter that is contingent may be divided into the
object-matter of art or of production, and the object-
matter of action. Even popular language bears suffi-
ciently valid testimony to the distinction between
morality and art. And from this it follows, that the
habit of free rational action must not be confounded with
the habit of conscious rational production. Neither of the
two contains the other under it. No moral action is ever
a process of art, nor is a process of art ever an instance
of moral action. Now architecture is an instance of an
art, for it comes under the class of habits of methodical
production. And, since there is no art which is not a
habit of methodical production, nor any habit of metho-
156
[Book VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
dical production which is not an art, it follows that the
definition of art is a habit of production in conscious.
accordance with a correct method.' Art, moreover, is
always occupied with production. The artist has to plan.
and to consider how to produce a something which it is.
possible either to bring about or to leave undone,—a
something, that is to say, the efficient cause of which is
the producer, not the product itself. Hence all necessary
matter, whether immutable, or variable in accordance
with fixed law, is beyond the sphere of art: as likewise
are all natural phenomena; for these latter are their own
efficient causes.
Since, moreover, moral action and
pro-
duction are distinct, it follows that it is production, and
(111.) not action, which is the province of art. | And, to a cer-
tain extent, the object-matter of art will also be the
object-matter of chance, as Agathon has said, saying-
5
Art loveth chance, chance art, with sister's love.
Art then is, as we have said, a habit of production in
conscious accordance with a correct method-if the
method be faulty, it is not art that we have, but bungling
-and it is concerned with matter which is contingent,
and so alterable by human agency.
Prudence will be best defined by an examination of
the grounds upon which we apply the term 'prudent.'
The popular conception of the prudent man is that he is
able to take the right means to those ends that are good
and expedient for himself; and that not in any limited or
special matter, as, for example, the means to health, or
the means to strength, but, more generally, the means to
a good and happy life. In confirmation of this, it may be
observed that the term 'prudent' is applied to those who
are possessed of any special knowledge, only when they
occupy themselves with the best means to some good end
beyond the province of their own particular art. Thus
CHAP. V.]
157
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
1
then, speaking generally, the prudent man is he who can
analyse ends into their means. As no one ever applies
such an analysis to necessary matter, nor, indeed, to any
matter not in his own power, it follows that prudence and
science will be distinct: for, on the one hand, the method
of science is deductive, and deduction is impossible except
from premisses necessarily true, as otherwise our conclu-
sions will have but a contingent certainty; and, on the
other hand, an analysis of ends into means is useless in
necessary matter. And prudence must also be dis-
tinguished from art. It is distinct from science in that
the matter of action is contingent, and from art because.
moral action and production are specifically distinct.
Necessary matter on the one hand, and production on the
other, being thus excluded, it remains that prudence is a
conscious habit of correct reasoning on matters of action,
and concerned with what is good or bad for man. And
it will thus be distinct from art: for, in a process of pro-
duction, the end proposed is distinct from the process
itself; which is not the case in moral action, where the end
proposed is nothing more than that the action should be
done well. Hence it is that Pericles and men like Peri-
cles are held to be prudent, because they can see what is
good, not only for themselves, but also for mankind in
general: and hence, too, we hold those to be prudent
who are good managers of a household, or good states-
(112.) men. It is for this reason, moreover, that the word
'temperance' etymologically signifies that which pre-
serves prudence'; for temperance does, as a matter of
fact, preserve in us a right conception as to that which
conduces to our real good. Inordinate pleasure and pain
do not destroy or pervert all our conceptions-as, for
example, our conception of a triangle, as having, or not
having, its inner angles equal to two right angles-but
• Termi ate the parenthesis at ἄλλως ἔχειν.
}
158
[BOOK VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
་
6.
C
only those conceptions that are concerned with matters of
moral action. The ultimate principles of moral action
state the ultimate motive of our acts. But, when a man
has been corrupted by pleasure or by pain, then, of course,
such principles are to him no longer self-evident truths,
and he no longer believes that he ought to regulate his
every purpose, that is to say, his every action, by refer-
ence to such or to such an end; for the practice of vice
has a tendency to destroy our appreciation of moral prin-
ciples. And thus we find ourselves again obliged to
define prudence as a conscious habit of correct reasoning
on matters of action, concerned with that which is good
for man.' Art, again, admits of degrees of excellence,
while prudence does not; and in art a voluntary error is
not so blameable as an involuntary, while in prudence, as
in every other virtue, the reverse of this holds good.
Hence it follows that prudence is itself a definite virtue,
and consequently must not be confounded with art. And,
as the rational soul has two parts, prudence will be the
virtue, or highest excellence, of that part whose province.
is opinion - the object-matter of opinion, and consequently
of prudence, being matter which is contingent, and so
alterable by human agency. And yet prudence is some-
thing more than a mere habit of conscious reasoning, such
as art or science; a proof of which is, that such a habit
can, in course of time, be forgotten, whereas to forget
prudence is impossible.
Again, since science involves a conception of certain
universals, the matter of which will be necessary, and
since all deduction, and consequently all science (the
method of science being deductive), must have certain
premisses from which to proceed, it follows that it cannot
be science itself that supplies those premisses which
scientific knowledge involves. Neither can it be art or
prudence that will give us these premisses; for scientific
CHAP. VII.]
159
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
knowledge is gained by deduction, and its matter is con-
sequently necessary, while art and prudence have to do
with matter which is contingent. Neither will these
premisses be given us by philosophy, inasmuch as there
are certain subjects which even the philosopher treats
deductively, and for which he will consequently stand in
need of premisses. Since, then, the faculties which,
without possibility of error, always lead us to truth,
whether in necessary or in contingent matter, are science,
prudence, philosophy, and induction,-and since we see
that three of these, that is to say, prudence, science, and
(113) philosophy, | cannot possibly supply our universal pre-
7.
misses,it therefore remains that induction, commonly
known as reason' or 'reasoning,' is the one faculty left,
to which the discovery of these premisses must be
ascribed.
·
C
'Wisdom' we, in the case of the arts, ascribe to those
whose knowledge of their specific art is most absolutely
exact; as, for example, when we call Phidias a wise'
sculptor, and Polyclitus a wise' statuary, meaning by
this use of the word wisdom' nothing more than the
highest perfection of which art is capable: while in some
cases again we say that a man is 'wise' in a general
sense, and without reference to any such specific know-
ledge as is implied in the phrase 'wise in naught else,'
used by Homer in the Margites-
Him neither ditcher made the gods nor ploughman,
Nor wise in aught besides.
And hence it is clear that wisdom,' used as the equiva-
lent of philosophy, will signify the most absolutely exact
scientific knowledge: so that the philosopher must not
only be assured of the truth of his conclusions, as being
deducible from such or such principles, but must further
be assured that his principles are absolutely true. Thus,
160
[Book VI.
THE NICOMACIEAN
then, philosophy will be the combination of inductive
with deductive knowledge,-knowledge, so to say, at
once deductive and inductive, of the noblest and highest
objects,--
Fair body, and with fairest head complete.
It is indeed inconceivable to hold that statesmanship, or
that prudence, is the highest form of knowledge, unless
we are also to hold that man is the noblest object in the
universe. And since, moreover, that which is healthy
and that which is good will be one thing for men and
another for fishes, while that which is white and that
which is straight will under all circumstances alike be
identical, and since all men would admit that philosophy
is concerned with the immutable, and prudence with the
variable—for that being, whether man or animal, which
can in each particular case well discern its own interests,
men would assert to be prudent, and to it, consequently,
would entrust the charge of these interests; so that in
some cases we call even beasts prudent, when they dis-
play a power of forethought for their material welfare-
from all this it will clearly follow that philosophy is dis-
tinct from statesmanship, and, with it, from all other
kinds or forms of prudence. And suppose it be urged
that philosophy merely means knowledge of what is for
one's own good, then, it may be answered, there will be
many philosophies: for there cannot be but one, having
for its object what is good for all animals alike, but each
animal must have a philosophy of its own: otherwise
there will have to be but one science of medicine for all
living things. And suppose it be further urged that
man is the noblest of all living things, and that it is with
his especial good that philosophy is concerned; yet even
this in no way helps the argument, since there exist
(114.) things of a nature far more divine than is the human,
such as are, to take a most obvious example, those hea-
CHAP. VII.]
161
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
venly bodies of whose harmony the universe is composed.
Thus, then, we have said enough to show that philosophy
is the union of deductive with inductive knowledge, exer-
cised upon objects in their own nature the most noble.
And hence we say of Anaxagoras, and Thales, and
thinkers such as these, not that they are prudent, but
that they are philosophers; inasmuch as we see them
entirely ignorant of their own interests: and we say of
their speculations that they are strange, and wonderful,
and arduous, and divine, but also that they are useless, in
that the question of what is good for man is not the object
of their investigation. Prudence, on the other hand, is
concerned with human affairs, and with such objects only
as admit of deliberation. We indeed assign to the pru-
dent man, as his special province, good deliberation,
deliberation being never concerned with necessary matter,
nor, indeed, with any matter that does not subserve to
some end, and that end a good attainable by human
agency. And in the most general sense he shows good.
deliberation who, by the use of his reason, hits upon that
which is for man the best attainable result.
Now pru-
dence does not consist in knowledge of the universal alone,
but, in addition to this, a knowledge of singulars is neces-
sary; for prudence ought to determine our action, and
singulars constitute the field of action. Indeed, men
who have no knowledge of the universal are often more
successful in action than are those who have such know-
ledge; and most especially so are those who have an em-
piric knowledge of particulars. Suppose a man to have a
scientific knowledge of the law that all light meat is easy
of digestion, and consequently good for health, but not to
know what particular meats are light-such a man will
not be able to make us healthy. He rather will make us
healthy who knows, as a particular matter of fact, that
M
162
[BOOK VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
1
the flesh of birds is good for health. Now, inasmuch as
prudence is useless unless it is to influence our action, it
follows that it is best to know both the universal and the
singular, and, failing this, to know the particular alone;
although, of course, this latter kind of knowledge is subor-
8. dinate, and the former supreme. Again, statesmanship,
and prudence are generically the same, although specifi-
cally distinct. Statesmanship, as a whole, has a supreme
branch, concerned with universals, and known as the
theory of legislation; while that branch which deals with
particulars engrosses the generic name, and is called
'statesmanship' par excellence. This latter kind of
statesmanship is practical: it analyses ends into their
means. A bill is a practical measure, and forms the last
step in the analysis of ends into their means; and hence
we confine the term statesman' to actual politicians, to
whom, as to handicraftsmen, actual practice is confined.
Prudence, again, is held | most especially to consist in
foresight for one's own individual self. This it is that
engrosses the generic name of prudence, and is so distin-
guished from the good management of the household, from
the theory of legislation, and from statesmanship and its
two branches, the deliberative and the judicial. Know-
ledge of what is good for one's own individual self is, of
course, only a branch of the more general knowledge of
what is good for man: but still it is far the most distinc-
tive branch. And hence it is that he who knows what is
good for himself, and who busies himself therein, is held
to be prudent; statesmen being troubled with much serv-
ing, as says Euripides-
(115.)
How call me prudent?-in whose power it was,
Numbered among the many of the host,
No busy body, to enjoy at ease
An equal share of fortune with the wise.
1 I have ventured to omit the words κούφα καὶ before ὑγιεινά.
CHAP. VIII.]
163
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
High-blown is human pride. For, whosoe'er
Is over-skilled, and meddles over-much,
We honour, as a hero in the state.'
The prudent are indeed chiefly held to be such, in that
they confine their attention to what is good for them-
selves, and believe that therein their duty mainly lies;
although, perhaps, even one's own good requires for its
perfect realisation true conceptions as to the management
of the family and of the state, and is moreover an uncer-
tain matter, calling for much consideration. A further
confirmation of the distinction we have drawn between
philosophy and prudence may be found in a consideration
of the fact that a boy can become a geometrician, or
arithmetician, and can grasp these subjects philosophi-
cally, but yet cannot become really prudent. The reason
of this is that prudence consists in rightly dealing with
singulars, and that for a full knowledge of singulars expe-
rience is required. Such experience, for the acquisition
of which a considerable time is necessary, is out of the
reach of a boy. Suppose, however, the objection be
raised, why can a boy acquire a philosophic grasp of
mathematics, and not of metaphysics, or of physics?—to
this the answer can be given that mathematics deal with
pure abstractions, while the universals of physics and of
metaphysics are gained by generalisation from expe-
rience; so that of these latter the young can have no
genuine conviction, but must repeat them without under-
standing; whereas the first principles of mathematics are
self-evident. Again, prudence may be thus distinguished
from philosophy. In an analysis of ends into their means
an error of fact is quite as possible as an error of prin-
ciple. We may, for instance, be ignorant, either that all
heavy water is bad for health, or else that this particular
The verses are given in full, as they stand, conjecturally restored, in
the small Leipsic edition of the Fragments.
M 2
164
[BOOK VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
water is heavy. And, again, prudence is clearly distinct
(116.) from | deductive science of any kind. For, as we have
said, it is entirely concerned with particular matters of
fact,—all matters of action being such. Lastly, prudence,
in its aspect as moral perception or practical reason, is
the logically opposite pole to that analytic reason of
which induction is the function. This latter mediately
gives us those first principles that transcend all proof;
while the practical reason gives us the ultimate singular,
which is below the limits of science, and is immediately.
apprehended by the moral perception-a perception dis-
tinct from that of the localised bodily senses, and rather
analogous to that by which we perceive that such or such
a particular figure is three-sided, which is an ultimate
fact, and beyond all demonstration. But yet this mathe-
matical perception is more definitely a sense than pru-
dence is, and differs from the moral perception in kind.
9.
Between investigation and deliberation a distinction
must be drawn, deliberation being a species of investiga-
tion. And we have now to determine wherein consists
good deliberation. Is it a peculiar kind of scientific
knowledge, or of unscientific opinion? Or does it consist
in happiness of conjecture, or in any similar intellectual
power? From science it is clearly distinct: for men
never investigate that about which they already have
scientific knowledge; whereas good deliberation involves
reflection, he who deliberates going through a process
of investigation or calculation. Neither is it happiness
of conjecture, which is a something quick in its nature, as
involving no process of reasoning; whereas men delibe-
rate for some time, and we are told that we ought to act
with decision upon our deliberation, but to deliberate
slowly and deliberately. Moreover, good deliberation is
entirely distinct from quick perception of causes, or
sagacity, which is but a species of happiness in conjec-
CHAP. IX.]
165
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
ture.
Neither does good deliberation consist in any
special kind of unscientific opinion. But, since he who
deliberates ill errs, while he who deliberates well is said to
deliberate rightly, it is clear that good deliberation is a
rightness of some kind; but yet not a rightness of science,
nor of unscientific opinion. For in the case of science
rightness is no more possible than is error; while the
rightness of unscientific opinion is that it should be true:
and, moreover, that, whatsoever it be, of which we have
an opinion is ipso facto determined, and no longer matter
for deliberation. But yet good deliberation involves a
reasoning process of some kind. It follows, therefore,
that it can only be rightness in the process of analysis of
an end into its means; for such an analysis is a purely
investigatory process, committing us to no definite state-
ment; whereas, while, on the one hand, opinion is not a
mere process of investigation, but in its very nature a
definite assertion, on the other hand he who deliberates
(whether he deliberate well, or whether ill) goes through
a process of investigation and of calculation. It is settled
then that good deliberation consists in rightness of con-
sideration, so that we must first inquire what considera-
tion is, and with what objects it deals. Now since there
are many kinds of rightness, it is clear that it is not every
kind that constitutes good deliberation. For the inconti-
(117.) nent man | and the bad man will obtain from their delibe-
ration the results which they desire, and will, so far,
have deliberated rightly, but will none the less have
brought upon themselves a great evil; whereas, to have
deliberated well would seem to be a good thing; for good
deliberation is a rightness of consideration such that by it
we arrive at a good result. But yet, again, a good re-
sult may be arrived at by false reasoning; so that a man
Inay obtain the end which he ought, but not in the way
which he conceived, his rationale of the process being
166
[BOOK VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
IO.
altogether incorrect. Good deliberation, then, cannot
but be a something more than an analysis of this sort, in
result of which we do indeed attain the right end, but
not by use of the right means. And, again, a man may
attain the right end after a long deliberation, or after a
short. In the former case he will still have fallen short
of good deliberation, which requires correctness of judg-
ment upon our interests, directed towards the right end,
attaining it by the appropriate means, and completed in
a reasonable time. Moreover, of good deliberation there
are two kinds-the general, and the specific: the former
that which correctly aims at the true end of life as a
whole, the latter that which aims at some specific end.
In fine, since to deliberate well is a characteristic of pru-
dent men, it follows that good deliberation is a correct
conception of that which conduces towards a certain end,
of which end the true conception is given by prudence.
Again, appreciation, or want of appreciation, (in re-
spect of which we say of men that they show or do not
show appreciation,) is not generically the same as is
science, or as is unscientific opinion-in which case all
men would possess it nor is it identical with any
specific science, as with medicine for example, which
treats of things good for health, or with geometry, which
treats of dimensions. For appreciation is not concerned
with matter eternal and immutable, nor with every kind
of contingent matter, but only with such contingent
matter as admits of practical doubt, and of deliberation
concerning means. In a word, it deals with precisely the
same matters as prudence, with which however it is not
on this account identical. For prudence speaks in the
imperative. Its end is what we ought to do, and so, by
implication, what we ought not; while appreciation is
purely critical. Moreover, appreciation must be under-
stood to mean good appreciation, and those to show
CHAP. XI.]
167
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
appreciation whose appreciation is good. Now apprecia-
tion does not merely consist in the possession of prudence,
nor in the acquisition of prudence; but, exactly as when
(118.) a man | uses critically scientific knowledge which he
already possesses we call the process of inference through
which he then goes appreciation,' so, too, here we
apply the term appreciation' when a man uses his
knowledge of contingent matter to form a proper critical
judgment on a something which lies within the province.
of prudence, and of which he has been told by others-a
proper judgment being a good one. Hence it is that
appreciation, in virtue of which men are said to show
good or proper appreciation, derives its name,—from the
above-mentioned use of the term in cases of scientific
inference critically exercised; of which, if correctly per-
formed, we often say that it exhibits appreciation.
II. What is commonly called 'consideration,' in respect
of which we say that men are considerate, and show con-
sideration, consists in the correct judgment of the equit-
able man critically exercised. This is shown by the fact
that we say of the equitable man that he is disposed to
show forbearance, and that it is only equitable in certain
cases to show such forbearance. And forbearance, which
is etymologically connected with consideration, is merely
the consideration of the equitable man correctly exercised
in judgment upon the actions of others, such correct-
ness being an intellectual rather than a moral matter.
Now all these habits of mind above described, tend, as
might be expected, in the same direction. We speak of
consideration, and appreciation, and prudence, and of the
practical reason, or moral perception, and we say of the
same man that he has consideration, and with it, of course,
a right moral perception, and that he is prudent, and
shows appreciation. For all these faculties have for their
object-matter ultimate moral facts. It is in that a man
168
[BOOK VI
THE NICOMACHEAN
can form a good critical judgment upon those matters
with which prudence is concerned that he is said to show
appreciation, and consideration, or forbearance. For to
act equitably in all their mutual relations is the common
characteristic of all good men. Now all matters of
action are in their very nature ultimate and particular
facts. These facts the prudent man must be able to re-
cognise in their true aspect. And, again, appreciation
and consideration are concerned with these same ultimate
facts that constitute the matter of action. Moreover it
is reason that gives us the moral first principles of each
kind; for it is reason, and not deductive inference, which
not only finds for us the highest moral universal, but also
apprehends the ultimate moral fact; the one kind of rea-
son, that which deduction presupposes, furnishing us with
our immutable and ultimate universals, the other, the pro-
vince of which is those propositions that relate to
particular matters of action, apprehending for us the ulti-
mate and contingent fact, which forms the minor premiss
of the moral syllogism. From reflection upon such facts
it is that we arrive at our conception of the ultimate end
of life, gaining the universal by a process of induction.
from its particulars. For the immediate apprehension,
then, of these facts an appropriate perception is required:
and this perception is what is called the practical reason,
or moral perception. Hence too it is that these faculties
are supposed to, as it were, grow up in us.
No man, it
is said, finds philosophy grow up in him in the same way
(119.) as does consideration, and appreciation, and a right
moral perception. And this is illustrated by the fact
that we hold these faculties to be consequent upon a cer-
tain length of life, and say that at such or such an age
comes a right moral perception, and power of considera-
tion, since they will by this time have grown up in
us. Lastly, it is reason that begins and reason that
CHAP. XII.]
169
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
į
completes the scale of moral truths. From universals
given by inductive reasoning moral demonstration pro-
ceeds; with particulars apprehended by the practical
reason it is concerned. And hence it follows that where
men have experience, and age, or in a word are pru-
dent, we must pay no less regard to their unproved as-
sertions and opinions than we should to a moral demons-
tration. For experience has trained their eye to correct
vision.
Thus then we have defined both prudence and philo-
sophy, have assigned to each a determinate object-matter,
and have shown that each is the virtue, or highest
12. specific excellence, of one of the two parts of the rational
soul. It is however a question in what respect either of
them is of any actual use. Philosophy in no way con-
siders the means by which happiness is to be acquired,
production of any kind being beyond its sphere. And,
although prudence does do this, yet it is hard to see
wherein we stand in need of it: for prudence consists in
the knowledge of what is just, and noble, and good for
man, that is to say in knowledge of what the good man
will do. But such knowledge does not in any way lead
us to act thereupon, since the moral virtues consist not
in knowledge merely, but in a formed state of the cha-
racter; exactly as no result necessarily follows from
knowledge of good health, or of good condition (know-
ledge, that is to say, not of the efficient causes of these
states, but of their essential manifestations). For the
mere knowledge of medicine or of gymnastic produces no
result upon our lives. And, if we are to assume that
the object of prudence is not mere knowledge such as
this, but the actual acquisition and possession of virtue,
it follows that prudence will be useless both to those who
are already good, and to those who are not so. For in
the latter case it will be immaterial whether they have.
170
[BOOK VI.
THIE NICOMACHEAN
prudence of their own, or whether they follow the advice.
of others who are prudent; the latter course- as in the
case of health-being all that is really necessary. For,
although we desire to have good health, we do not on
that account study medicine. Lastly, it seems inconceiv-
able that prudence should be inferior to philosophy, and
yet her mistress, as indeed she is. For in every case all
authority and all practical rules for each thing originate
with the faculty concerned with its production. Having
then thus raised these difficulties, it remains that we
should discuss them. And in the first place it must be
(120.) observed that, even although prudence and philosophy
give no practical rules for the acquisition of happiness,
they yet cannot but be choice-worthy in and for them-
selves, being each the highest excellence of one of the
parts of the soul. And, secondly, philosophy (and with
it prudence) does produce happiness, not in the same way
as medicine produces a healthy state of body, but rather
as health itself may be held to do so. For, being an ele-
ment in human excellence as a whole, it makes a man
happy in that he not only possesses it, but also manifests
it in action. And, again, the function of man as man
requires for its perfect manifestation, prudence on the
one hand, and moral virtue on the other; the latter to
make the end of action right, the former to point out the
best means thereto. The fourth part of the soul, the
nutritive, has no such virtue; it is neither in its power to
act, nor to refrain from action. So that, with regard to
the difficulty that prudence, which consists in knowledge
of what is noble and just, does not any the more dispose
us to such acts, we must carry our analysis a little
deeper, and therefrom commence our demonstration.
Exactly as we do not say that men are just merely be-
cause they do just acts—as for example is the case with
those who do what the laws order, either under compul-
CHAP. XIII.]
171
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
=
6
sion, or through ignorance, or with some ulterior end in
view beyond the just act itself—although such men do
indeed, as a matter of fact, do everything which is right,
and which the good man ought to do--so too it would
seem that, for the performance of the various virtuous
acts to imply the possession of the various virtues,
certain conditions must be fulfilled in their performance.
Or, in other words, they must be done from deliberate
purpose, and for their own sakes. Now it is virtue that
gives our purpose a morally right end; but the correct
means thereunto are given, not by virtue, but by another
faculty, to which we must now direct our attention, and
give of it a clear account. There is, then, a certain
faculty which is called cleverness,' and which is such.
that the clever man can take, that is to say can hit upon,
those means that tend to the end proposed. If this end
be good, then cleverness is praiseworthy; if bad, it
becomes identical with cunning; so that we sometimes
call even the prudent clever, and so, by dyslogistic impu-
tation, cunning. Now prudence is not convertible with
mere cleverness, although it presupposes such cleverness.
as its raw material. This cleverness is, as it were, an
eye of our soul, which cannot acquire a habit of right
vision without moral virtue. We have made this state-
(121.) ment bcfore, and it is, indeed, self-evident. All moral
action involves a syllogism, having for its major premiss
'such or such a thing'-what, is unimportant: for, for
the sake of argument, it may be what we choose-is
the end of all action, that is to say, the chief good.'
But, unless a man be virtuous, he does not perceive the
truth of this principle: for vice perverts the soul, and
leads it to false conclusions upon moral principles. And
thus it is plain that a man cannot possibly be prudent,
unless he be also virtuous. It remains, therefore, again
to discuss virtue. Exactly as prudence is related to
13.
:
172
[BOOK VI
THE NICOMACHEAN
cleverness, which it, resembles, but with which it is not on
that account identical, so is true virtue related to our
natural virtuous instincts. There is a certain sense in
which all the moral virtues may be said to be innate.
From our youth upwards we are to a certain extent just,
and temperate, and brave, and so forth; but the real
object of education is true virtue, or the possession of
these natural instincts after they have undergone certain
definite modifications. Even children and beasts possess
these virtuous instincts; which, however, until formed
and modified by reason, as often result in evil as in good.
Nay, more, experience shows that, exactly as great physi-
cal strength devoid of sight, because so devoid, cannot
but result in a grievous fall, so too is it with our instinc-
tive moral impulses; but that, if in addition a man
acquire reason by which to guide them, his actions.
become distinctively virtuous, and his new habit of mind,
which will resemble the old, will be true virtue as opposed
to instinctive. Thus then, exactly as that part of the
intellectual soul the province of which is the contingent
matter of action has two habits or conditions, cleverness
and prudence; so too there are two conditions of the
moral soul, instinctive virtue and true virtue, for the
existence of the latter of which prudence is necessary.
And hence some people are misled to suppose that the
various moral virtues are only so many forms of prudence.
Socrates was partly right herein, and partly wrong;
wrong in asserting that the virtues were merely so many
forms of prudence, right in asserting that they neces-
sarily involved prudence. Our meaning may be thus
illustrated. The usual definition of a virtue, after stating
that it is concerned with such or such an object-matter,
adds that it is, with reference to that object-matter, a
habit of mind concordant with right reason; which
reason, of course, is only right when concordant with
CHAP. XIII.]
173
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
:
(122.) prudence. Indeed, all men would seem to have to
some extent divined that virtue consists in a certain
state of mind concordant with prudence. But yet this
definition needs some modification. For virtue is not
merely a habit of mind concordant with prudence, but
rather a habit of mind in conscious accordance with
prudence. And prudence itself is that very same right
reason with reference to such matters, of which we have
been speaking. Now Socrates thought that the virtues
were mere processes of reasoning-that they were, in
fact, so many distinct sciences-whereas we say that all
virtue involves reason. And thus we shall have made it
clear that it is impossible to be truly virtuous without
prudence, or to be prudent without true virtue. These
considerations will serve to solve the argument some-
times used to prove that the virtues are separable. For,
it is alleged, nature does not give to the same man the
same inclination toward every virtue; so that it is con-
ceivable that a man should have one moral virtue, and
yet not another. This is true enough of our natural
instincts towards the various virtues, but entirely untrue
of those virtues which give a man a distinctive claim to
be called virtuous. For with the simple unity of pru-
dence the collective totality of the various moral virtues.
is necessarily coexistent. Lastly, it is perfectly clear
that, even if prudence were in no way concerned with
moral action, man would nevertheless be imperfect
without it, in that it is the specific virtue of one of the
parts of the soul. And it is also clear that our purpose
cannot possibly be right without on the one hand pru-
dence, and on the other moral virtue; the latter giving
us the right end, the former the correct means thereunto.
Lastly, prudence is in no sense supreme over philosophy,
and consequently over the highest part of the soul, any
more than medicine is supreme over health. For it does
174
[Book VI.
THE NICOMACHEAN
I
not make use of philosophy as a means to its own ends,
but only considers the means to philosophy as an end.
Its commands are not laid upon philosophy, but are laid
down in behalf of philosophy.
One might as well say
that statesmanship is supreme over the Gods, because
everything in the state is under its control.
1
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
175
..
I.
VII.
HAVING now treated of the virtues, both moral and
(123.) intellectual, we will commence a fresh subject, and inves-
tigate those types of character that ought to be avoided,
and which are of three kinds, to wit-vice, incontinence,
and brutality. As to the contraries of the first two of
these there need be no difficulty; for the contrary of
vice we call virtue, and the contrary of incontinence we call
self-restraint. But what would seem to be most fittingly
opposed to brutality is that virtue which transcends the
human, and which is of an heroic or godlike type, such
as Priam, in the poems of Homer, ascribes to Hector,
when wishing to speak of his great goodness,—
Not woman-born seemed he, but sprung from Gods.
And So, if it be true, as they say, that men become Gods
when they altogether transcend human virtue, it is then
clear that the state of character to be opposed to the
brutal will be such as we have described. For, exactly
as a brute has, properly speaking, neither virtues nor
vices, so neither has a God. For the excellence of a
God is a something to be held in higher honour than is
any human virtue, and the evil nature of a beast is a
something specifically distinct from any form of vice.
And, exactly as it is a rare thing to find a man of god-
like nature to use the expression of the Spartans, a
godlike man,' which they apply to those whom they
excessively admire-so too brutality is a type of character
rarely found among men. It is among savages, indeed,
that it is chiefly to be met with, and in some cases it is
176
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
the result of disease, or of mutilation; and we reserve the
term as one of peculiarly evil import, to be applied to
those whose vice is worse than human. About this habit,
however, we will hereafter make mention. Vice we have
already discussed. And so it only remains to treat of
incontinence, and of effeminacy or luxuriousness, and
along with them of self-restraint and endurance; which
(124) habits are not to be supposed to be respectively | iden-
tical with virtue and with vice, nor yet to be specifically
distinct from them. Our method will be, as elsewhere,
to first properly state the facts in question, and to discuss
the problems which they involve; and so to establish the
validity, if possible, of all the most generally current con-
ceptions respecting the affections of which we treat; but,
if not of all, at any rate of the majority of them, and of
the most important among them. For the subject will
be sufficiently elucidated, if the solution and consequent
elimination of difficulties leave a residue of truth con-
firmed by popular opinion.
Now, self-restraint and endurance are held to be
things good and praiseworthy; while incontinence and
effeminacy are held to be bad and blamable. And it is
further held that the man of self-restraint is he who holds
firmly to his convictions; and that the incontinent man
is he who easily abandons his convictions. And it is
further held that the incontinent man knows that his
acts are bad, but is led into them by passion; while the
man of self-restraint, knowing his desires to be bad, is
restrained by reason from the pursuit of them. And it
is further held that the temperate man is he who has self-
restraint and endurance; and some make this type of
character convertible with temperance-others again do
not. And so, too, while some confuse the incontinent
man with him who is absolutely intemperate and de-
bauched, others again hold that these two types of cha-
CHAP. II.]
177
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
2.
racter are distinct. And it is further held that the
prudent man cannot possibly be incontinent; while others
again hold that it is quite possible to be prudent, or
clever, and yet incontinent. And it is further held
that men can be incontinent in respect of anger, and of
honour, and of lucre.
:
Such then are the statements ordinarily made upon
the subject; a consideration of which suggests the pro-
blem how it is possible for a man to be incontinent if
he have correct moral conceptions. Some, indeed, there
are who say that, if a man have true knowledge of what
is good, he cannot possibly be such for that it is, as
Socrates used to hold, inconceivable that, when a man
has a real knowledge of what is for his good, anything
else should get the better of him, and should drag him
round like a slave to the pursuit of evil. Socrates,
indeed, was absolutely opposed to any such view; his
own theory being that what was called incontinence
really had no existence; for that no one could have a
true conception of the good, and yet act in opposition to
it, all such apparent cases of incontinence being in
reality the result of ignorance. The position herein
taken up by Socrates is, however, at direct variance with
plain and recognised facts, and one ought rather to have
enquired with regard to the affection in question, sup-
posing it really to be the result of ignorance, what the
(125.) nature of that ignorance is; | for it is evident that the
incontinent man, before he is actually suffering from the
affection in question, does not hold that the acts which he
is shortly about to commit are right. And some, again,
there are who partly admit and partly deny this position.
For, while they allow that there is nothing which can be
of stronger influence than is real knowledge, they yet
will not allow that a man can never act in opposition to
what he only supposes to be for his good; and hence
N
178
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
.....
.
!
they say that it is not a real knowledge of what is good
which the incontinent man possesses when his pleasures
master him, but only an opinion. But, if we are to hold
that it is only an opinion, and not true knowledge, which
the incontinent man possesses, or, in other words, that
it is not a strong conviction which opposes itself to his
passions, but only a slight one, much as in what is called
a case of doubt, then we ought, perhaps, to excuse him
for not abiding firmly by his convictions in the teeth
of strong bodily desires: whereas vice ought never to be
excused, nor indeed ought anything that calls for blame.
Are we then to hold that it is prudence in opposition to
which the desires of the incontinent man assert them-
selves,—for prudence has the very strongest influence?
Surely this is inconceivable; for it will then follow that
the same person can, at the same time, be both incon-
tinent and prudent. And yet no one can say of the
prudent man that he voluntarily does the most dis-
graceful acts. Besides, we have already shown that the
very essence of prudence is that it disposes us to prudent
action. For the prudent man always rightly apprehends
the particular circumstances of the moment, and in virtue
of his prudence possesses every moral virtue. Moreover,
if the man of self-restraint is to be held to be such, in
that he has strong and bad desires which he successfully
resists, it will follow that self-restraint and temperance.
are absolutely incompatible; for the desires of the tem-
perate man are neither excessive nor bad. And yet self-
restraint cannot but imply desires of such a nature. For,
if it be granted that a man's desires are good, and that
his character forbids him to follow them, then self-
restraint will not in all cases be a good thing: and
suppose, again, that a man's desires are weak, and, in
addition, are not bad, in such a case self-restraint calls
for no admiration; nor, indeed, is self-restraint any great
CHAP. II.]
179
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
matter, even where our desires are bad, provided that
they are also weak. And, again, if we are to assume
that self-restraint is such that it makes a man abide by
his convictions, entirely irrespectively of their nature,
then it may, in some cases, be a bad thing, as when, for
example, it makes a man abide by an untrue conviction.
And so, too, if incontinence merely consist in abandoning
our convictions, be they whatever they may, then in
certain cases incontinence will be a good thing. Of this
Neoptolemus, in the Philoctetes of Sophocles, is a typical
instance; for he throws up the false part which Ulysses
had persuaded him to play, from disgust at the treachery
which it involves; and he therein deserves our praise.
Moreover, all sophistical paradoxes will, under our
present assumption, involve a moral problem. A man
wishes to establish a sophism, that he may by such suc-
cess gain a reputation for cleverness; and so, in the
consideration of his demonstration, we find ourselves
(126.) involved in | a moral dilemma. Our understanding is,
in such a case, entangled. For while, on the one hand, the
conclusion at which we have arrived is so unsatisfactory
that we cannot acquiesce in it; yet we cannot, on the
other hand, continue the discussion, because we cannot
solve the difficulty by which we are met. And if, again,
our present assumption were true, an argument could be
constructed by which to demonstrate that folly, if com-
bined with incontinence, is identical with virtue. For
incontinence would lead a man to act in opposition to his
convictions, and folly would lead him to suppose that
good acts were bad, and ought not to done; and so the
net result would be that he would do good acts, and not
bad. Lastly, upon the same assumption, he who, from
settled conviction, deliberately pursues pleasure in every
action, ought to be a better man than is he who acts
thus, not from conviction, but from incontinence; for his
N 2
180
[Book VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
C
fault can be more easily cured, all that is wanted being
that he should be argued out of his present conviction.
Whereas, to the incontinent man the old proverb very
aptly applies, When water chokes us, how are we to
wash it down?' For, if he had not been perfectly con-
vinced that what he does is wrong, he might have been
argued out of his wrong convictions, and so have aban-
doned his evil ways; but, as it is, he is convinced that
what he does is wrong, and yet he none the less acts in
opposition to his conviction. Lastly, if a man may be
said to show incontinence, or self-restraint, with respect.
to all and each of the ordinary objects of desire, what are
we to understand by the term incontinence,' when un-
qualified by any specification? For surely no one suffers
from every possible form of incontinence at one and the
same time. And yet we say of some people simply that
they are incontinent,' without any further qualification.
of our assertion.
Such, in the main, are the problems which suggest
themselves. Among them there are some propositions
which must be absolutely refuted, and others which may,
after proper explanation, be accepted as true. For, in
all cases, the solution of a problem is equivalent to the
3. discovery of a new truth. First, then, we must con-
sider whether the incontinent man can be said to have
knowledge, or not; and in what sense it is that he can be
said to have knowledge. Secondly, we must ask with
what it is that we are to hold that incontinence and self-
restraint are concerned; whether, that is to say, they are
concerned with certain peculiar pleasures and pains alone,
or with all pleasures and pains alike. Thirdly, we must
enquire whether self-restraint and endurance are iden-
tical, or distinct. And, in like manner, all other ques-
tions akin to the present discussion must be adequately
treated. The starting-point of our investigation will be,
CHAP. III.]
181
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
to determine whether the incontinent man differs from
the man of self-restraint, in that he is concerned with a
different class of objects, or in that he stands in a different
relation to the same class of objects. Is, that is to say,
the incontinent man to be held incontinent, in that he
simply has to do with such and such objects, or rather in
virtue of the peculiar relation in which he stands to them;
or are both these points necessary to constitute inconti-
nence? And we must then proceed to consider whether
incontinence and self-restraint are concerned with every
class of objects indiscriminately, or not. For he who is
simply called 'incontinent,' without any further qua-
(127.) lification, is not so called with reference to | all objects
indiscriminately, but only with reference to such objects
as the absolutely intemperate and debauched man
pursues; nor does his incontinence merely consist in
his pursuit of these objects, in which case it would be
impossible to distinguish between incontinence and in-
temperance, but in the pursuit of them under certain
definite and peculiar conditions. For, while the intem-
perate man deliberately allows pleasure to influence him,
being of opinion that it is always right to pursue what-
ever object may be pleasant for the time being, the in-
continent man does not think such conduct right, but yet
none the less pursues such pleasure. The objection that
it is not real knowledge, but only a true opinion, in de-
fiance of which the incontinent act, in no way helps the
argument; for, in cases where men have really nothing
better than an opinion upon the matter in question, they
often manifest no hesitation whatever, and fancy that.
they have accurate knowledge. And so, if it be held
that it is the insufficient nature of their convictions which
makes those who have only an opinion more apt to act in
opposition to their previous conceptions than are those
who have real knowledge, we shall be met by the
182
[Book VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
difficulty that there will, in this respect, be no difference
between opinion and real knowledge; for that some men
put no less faith in their own uncertified opinions than do
others in the verified truths of science; and of this
Heraclitus is a good instance. But, inasmuch as there
are two distinct senses in which a man may be said to
'know' (for he who has knowledge which is not con-
sciously present to his mind is said to know,' equally
with him to whose mind such knowledge is consciously
present), it follows that there will be a great difference
between doing what we know to be wrong, when such
knowledge is not consciously present to our mind, and
doing what is wrong when we know that it is wrong, and
are perfectly conscious of our knowledge. The latter
case seems, indeed, inconceivable; while the former,
where our knowledge is not consciously present to our
mind, does not. And, again, the syllogism which all
action involves and presupposes, is formed of two pre-
misses a universal major, and a particular minor; so
that it becomes perfectly possible for a man to know'
in a certain sense both these premisses, and yet to act in
opposition to his knowledge, inasmuch as he consciously
recollects the major premiss alone, the minor (although
in a certain sense he may be said to 'know' it) not
being actually present to his mind. For it is the par-
ticular or minor term, which is contained in the minor
premiss, that in each case constitutes the matter of the
action. It must, however, be borne in mind that there
are two possible kinds of major premiss to the moral
syllogism-one in which the middle term contains under
it the doer of the act in question, the other in which the
middle term contains under it the act itself. We may,
for example, have, as our major premiss, all men ought
to take dry food,' and, as our minor premiss, I am a
man;'or, again, we may have, as our major premiss,' all
:
183
CHAP. III.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
6
such or such things are dry;' and in this latter case it is
quite possible that a man should either not know the
minor premiss, this particular thing is such or such,' or
that, even if he know it, it should not be consciously
present to his mind. And between the two cases which
we have just put there is the very greatest possible
difference-so much so, indeed, that while, in the latter
case, it seems in no way strange that a man should know
what is right and yet should act against his knowledge,
such incontinence would, in the former case, be incon-
ceivable. And, again, men can be said to 'know' in yet
another sense, different from those just described. For,
when we come to consider the possibility of having know-
ledge of which one makes no conscious use, we recognise
yet another meaning that can be given to the phrase
'having knowledge,' and such that a man can be said to
have knowledge, and yet, at the same time, in a certain
sense, not to have it as when, for instance, he is asleep,
(128.) or suffering from acute mania, or intoxicated. And, as
a matter of fact, such is very much the condition of those
who are under the influence of any very strong emotion.
For anger, and sexual desire, and other such things, pro-
duce a visible alteration in the body, and are, in some
cases, sufficiently violent to bring on an attack of acute
mania; and it is evident that incontinence may be com-
pared to cases of this description. Nor is the fact that
the incontinent correctly repeat sound moral formularies,
any indication of their real state of mind.
For even
those who are suffering from the violent emotions which
we have just mentioned, can go through long demonstra-
tions, and can repeat verse after verse of Empedocles :
much as children, who have just begun to learn to speak,
string together into a sentence words of the meaning of
which they are as yet ignorant; for the right use of
language is a thing into which one as it were grows, and
184
[Book VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
which, consequently, requires time for its acquisition.
And hence we may conclude that the incontinent talk
about their duty in much the same manner as an actor
performs his part. And, again, one may consider incon-
tinence from yet another point of view, if one suppose
that man is mechanically acted upon by the strongest
motive which may, for the time being, be present to his
mind. All action presupposes two premisses, one of
which, the major, is a universal moral rule, while the
other, the minor, specifies the matter with which the par-
ticular action in question is concerned; and for its cor-
rectness, inasmuch as it is a particular proposition, it is
perception that is responsible. When, then, these two
premisses have been synthesised into one conclusion, in
which the particular action in question is brought under
the given moral rule, then, exactly as in intellectual
matters the mind cannot but assent to a conclusion legiti-
mately drawn, so, in a practical matter, we are, under our
present hypothesis, obliged to carry into effect the con-
clusion at which we have arrived. Let, for example, the
major premiss present to our mind be all sweet things
ought to be tasted,' and let the minor premiss be this is
some one among those many particular things which are
sweet;' then it will of necessity follow that he who is able
to do so, or who, in other words, is not under actual
restraint, will, as soon as he has drawn it, immediately
act upon the conclusion which these premisses involve.
Now let us suppose that there is one universal present
to our mind, which asserts that all sweet things are bad
for health, and so, by implication, forbids us to take them ;
and along with it another which asserts that all sweet
things are pleasant, and so, by implication, recommends
them; and let us also suppose a minor premiss (which of
course must be consciously present to our mind), to the
effect that this particular thing is sweet; and let us
6
CHAP. III.]
185
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
further suppose that the desire for pleasure be so actively
present in us as to preponderate over the fear of bad
health :—then, while, on the one hand, we have one con-
clusion which tells us not to taste this particular thing, yet,
on the other hand, the strength of our desire leads us to
act upon the other and contrary conclusion,-desire being,
indeed, often sufficiently strong to actually put in motion
each and all of our physical members. And hence it comes
to pass that a man acts incontinently under the sanction, to
a certain extent, of reason, that is to say under the sanc-
tion of the opinion that this particular sweet thing, being
pleasant, ought to be taken; which opinion is not directly
opposed to right reason, but only indirectly,—right reason
telling us that it ought not to be taken, not because it is
sweet and pleasant, but only because it is unwholesome.
And so the opposition is rather one between right reason
and desire, than between right reason and the wrong
opinion under which we act. And hence it is that beasts
cannot properly be called incontinent, inasmuch as they
have no universal conceptions in which right reason can
express itself, but only a sensuous conception and
memory of particular facts. To the question how the
ignorance of the incontinent man is resolved, and how he
again returns to the full possession of his knowledge,
much the same kind of answer must be given as to the
question how a drunken man becomes sober, or how a
man who is asleep wakes: it is, in short, an answer which
(129.) only a | physiologist proper can give, and will be drawn
from topics common to incontinence with many other
purely physical phenomena. To conclude,-it is the
minor premiss of the moral syllogism upon which our
action mainly depends. This minor premiss states an
opinion concerning a particular matter of fact, which, as
such, is the province of perception rather than of reason ;
and it is this minor premiss (and not the major, which, as
186
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACIIEAN
4.
being universal, is the province of science rather than of
perception), which he who acts incontinently either does
not know at all, or, if he does know it, knows it much as
a drunkard may be said to know the verses of Empedocles
which he repeats; he knows it, in other words, rather as
a lesson learnt by heart, than as a scientific truth pro-
ducing inward conviction. And it must also be re-
membered, that the minor term of the moral syllogism.
(which is the particular action in question, whatever it
may be) is a conception of less universality than is the
major term (which is the abstract definition of the good),
and, consequently, is not equally with it the object of
knowledge,— knowledge' properly meaning scientific
knowledge of universal conceptions. And, from all this,
it would seem to result that the conclusion which Socrates
sought to establish is correct. For it is not knowledge,
strictly and properly so called, that we have when incon-
tinence affects us; nor is it this kind of knowledge which
incontinence perverts; but only the so-called knowledge
of the senses, which is but a quasi-knowledge, given by
perception, and not by reason.
6
Thus much, then, is sufficient as to the distinction be-
tween real knowledge and quasi-knowledge, and as to the
compatibility of incontinence with knowledge. We must
now, following the order originally proposed, proceed to
enquire whether the term incontinent' is to be applied
to all those alike who pursue any particular desire in
opposition to right reason; or whether it is to be
restricted to some one particular class among them; and,
if so, with what particular objects it is that incontinence
is concerned. Now, it is self-evident that pleasure and
pain are the two objects with which, on the one hand,
self-restraint and endurance, and, on the other hand, in-
continence and effeminacy are alike concerned. But
among those objects that give pleasure, some may be
CHAP. IV.]
187
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
said to be necessary or inevitable, while others are in
themselves, and independently of all other considerations,
choiceworthy, although they can be pursued to excess.
The term ' necessary' must be understood to be restricted
to those objects that give bodily pleasure, such as is
everything connected with eating, and with the sexual
desire, and indeed as are all those other bodily objects.
with which we said that intemperance and temperance
were concerned; while the pleasurable objects that are
not necessary, but are still choiceworthy for their own
sake, are such, for instance, as victory, or honour, or
wealth, or any other good and pleasant thing. And so
to those who pursue this latter class of objects to excess,
in conscious defiance of their better reason, we do not
simply apply the term incontinent,' but we call them
incontinent in respect of wealth, or of gain, or inconti-
nent of ambition, or of anger, always adding some such
further specification by which to distinguish them from
the simply incontinent: just as to Man' was added
the further specification who, in such or such a year,
was victor at the Olympic Games.' For, in his case, his
proper name Man,' although it differed but slightly
from his generic name man,' was yet distinct from it,
and so required some such specification by which it might
be distinguishe And, in proof of the distinction just
laid down, it may be observed that simple incontinence
(130). is always blamed, not merely as being an error, | but as
being a definite form of vice-as being, that is to say,
either identical with vice as a whole, or else with some
specific and particular form of vice: while none of those
are blamed who exhibit any of the specific forms of incon-
tinence above mentioned. And, again, of those who are
concerned with those bodily enjoyments which we stated
to be the object-matter of temperance and of intemperance,
C
6
<
1 For ἄνθρωπος real ῎Ανθρωποs with Aspasius and others.
IS8
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
he who pursues all excessive pleasure, and avoids all exces-
sive pain, whether it come from hunger, or from thirst, or
from heat, or from cold, or from any other of the sensa-
tions which are transmitted by touch and by taste, and who
does not do so with deliberate purpose, but rather against
his purpose, that is to say against his better reason,—he
is called incontinent; and that not with any further
specification, stating him to be incontinent with respect
to such or such a thing, as, for instance, with respect to
anger, but simply incontinent. And, in illustration of
this, it may be remarked that it is with reference to these
bodily pleasures and pains alone that men are called in-
temperate,' and not with reference to any of those plea-
sures or pains which have been spoken of above, and
with reference to which the phrase incontinence'
receives some further specification. And hence it is that
simple incontinence and intemperance are roughly classed
together, as also are their two contraries, self-restraint
and temperance, because they are all to a certain extent
concerned with the same kind of pleasures and of pains;
while none of the various specific forms of incontinence is
ever classed along with intemperance. Intemperance
and simple incontinence are indeed concerned with the
same pleasures, but involve a different relation towards
them; for the intemperate man pursues these pleasures.
with deliberate purpose, while the incontinent man does
not. And hence we should apply the term intempe-
rate' to him who avoids even ordinary pain and pursues
excessive pleasure, being at the time free from desire, or
at any rate feeling desire but slightly, rather than to him
who acts thus when under the influence of a strong
desire. For how would the former act if an overpower-
ing desire were to come upon him, and with it a violent
pain caused by the craving for some one of those plea-
1 For μαλακοί read ακόλαστοι with Zell and others.
6
CHAP. IV.]
189
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
sures which we have elsewhere called necessary? Again,
our desires and our pleasures may, exactly as we said
before,' be divided into, firstly, those which are essentially
good and noble (for some things that yield pleasure are
of their own nature choiceworthy), and of this kind are
the pleasures of wealth, and gain, and victory, and honour;
and, secondly, those which are the exact contraries of
these former; and, thirdly, those which stand midway
between the two. And with reference to all objects of
the first class, and, indeed, of the intermediate class, a
man is not blamed for being simply affected by them,
that is to say for simply desiring them and liking them,
but only for carrying such a desire, or such a liking, to
excess. And, consequently, we do not hold as depraved
those who, in violation of right reason, are so overcome
by their desire for some naturally noble and good object,
as to pursue it to excess; as when, for instance, a man
displays an over-excessive zeal in the pursuit of honour,
or in his affection for his children and his parents. For,
although, on the one hand, all such objects are good in
themselves, and although those are to be praised who
show a proper zeal about them, yet, on the other hand, it
(1).13 is possible to carry our feelings towards them into
excess; as, for example, did Niobe, who defied the Gods
to produce the equals of her children; or as did Satyrus,
who came at last to be known as 'the good son,' from the
absolutely foolish length to which he carried his affection
for his father. The fact already stated, that each of these
things is in itself, and independently of all other con-
siderations, naturally and essentially choiceworthy, for-
bids our using the term 'vice' with reference to any of
them but still our desire or affection for them can none
the less be carried to a bad and blamable excess. And
it is for the same reason that, with regard to any of
• Terminate the parenthesis at πрóτepov, as Michelet suggests.
190
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
5.
these things, we do not speak of incontinence simply;
for simple incontinence is not only a thing to be avoided,
but is absolutely blamable and bad. But, because a
man can be affected by each one of these objects in much
the same way as is the incontinent man by the objects of
his desire, we use the term 'incontinence' with reference
to each one of them, adding to it, as a further specifica-
tion, the name of the especial object with which such
incontinence is concerned; much as we say of a man.
that he is a bad doctor or a bad actor, to whom we should
never think of applying the simple term 'bad' without
any such specification. Much then as in the instances.
just given we do not use the simple term 'bad' without
any further modification (neither of the two faults in ques-
tion being a vice, but only resembling vice in so far as
ignorance of medicine or of the rules of art may be com-
pared to ignorance of moral principles); so, too, here we
must distinctly understand that that alone is properly
incontinence, and that that alone is properly self-restraint,
which is concerned with the same class of objects as
are temperance and intemperance; and that to speak
of incontinence or of self-restraint with respect to anger,
is to extend the terms in question to adjacent and some-
what similar cases. And hence it is that we add to the
term incontinent' a further specification, and say of a
man that he is incontinent of anger,' in much the same
sense as that in which we use the phrases incontinent of
honour' and 'incontinent of gain.'
Now there are some things that are essentially
pleasant of their own nature, and of which some are
pleasant absolutely and to all beings alike, while others
are pleasant only to certain kinds of animals, and of men,
and not to others. And there are other things again
that are not really pleasant at all, but that become so
from some physical defect, or from long habituation, or
}
191
CHAP. V.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
from depravity of nature; and to each of these latter
kinds there is a correspondent state or condition of moral
depravity. We are speaking here of those states which
are commonly called 'brutal;' such, for example, as
that of the woman of whom we are told that she used to.
rip up those who were with child, and devour the foetus.
Or one might instance the degraded tribes in the neigh-
bourhood of the Pontus, some of whom are said to take
pleasure in raw flesh, and others in cannibalism; while
of others, again, we are told that each family in its turn
provides a child for the common banquet; and then, too,
there is the story that is current about Phalaris. The
above, then, are fair instances of one class of what may
be termed brutal states. In some other cases such
brutality is the result of disease, and in others, again, of
insanity; such, for instance, as was that of the madman
who offered up his mother to the Gods, and partook of
the sacrifice; or that of the slave who tore out and
devoured his fellow slave's liver. Where brutality is not
caused by disease it is sometimes the result of habit, as
(132.) where people pluck out and eat their own hair, or | bite
their nails, or eat ashes or dirt, or where men desire
unnatural intercourse. Such morbid conditions are, in
short, sometimes the result of a constitution naturally
depraved, and sometimes of vicious habits, as in the case
of those who have been subjected to unnatural treatment
from their youth. In all those instances in which
depravity has a physical origin, to speak of it as 'incon-
tinence' would be as much a misapplication of terms as it
would be to call women incontinent because their desires
are those of their own sex; and for the same reason we
never speak of 'incontinence' in those cases where long
habit has brought on chronic disease. And, in fact, the
cases of which we have been speaking are all of them, as
is simple brutality, a something altogether beyond the
192
[BOOK VII
THE NICOMACHEAN
A
:
pale of vice. And so, too, if a man have such morbid
desires, and either conquer them, or be conquered by
them, we do not call him, as the case may be, either
self-restrained or incontinent, save only in so far as he
resembles the self-restrained or the incontinent; exactly as,
where a man's angry passions are thus beyond his control,
we do not call him simply incontinent,' but incontinent
of anger.' For, indeed, whenever folly, or cowardice, or
intemperance, or hot temper manifests itself in extrava-
gant excess, it is the result of a nature which was either
originally brutal, or which has become such from disease.
He, for instance, who is constitutionally such a coward
as to be frightened at anything, even at the squeak of a
mouse, displays a cowardice such as is that of the lower
animals, and which can only be called brutal; and, on the
other hand, the case of the man who was mad when he
beheld a cat' was one of disease. Idiots, again, are either
by their very nature irrational, and devoid of any higher
guide for life than their animal senses, in which case they
are called brutal, as are some tribes of remote barbarians;
or else they are idiotic from disease, as, for example,
epilepsy; or from insanity; in which cases we speak of
them as diseased, and not as depraved. In such cases as
these a man sometimes suffers from the infirmity, but
does not give way to it,-Phalaris, for example, might
have restrained his desire to eat children's flesh, and his
unnatural sexual appetites, and sometimes, on the other
hand, a man not only suffers from the infirmity, but is
also mastered by it. To conclude, then, exactly as there
are two kinds of vice, of which one, as being human, is
simply called vice,' while the other is further specified
as being brutal or morbid: so, too, it is clear that there
are two kinds of incontinence, of which the one is either
brutal or morbid, while the other is simply called 'incon-
tinence,' and is co-extensive in its range with ordinary
intemperance.
6
F
CHAP. VI.]
193
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
Thus, then, it is clear that the range of incontinence
and of self-restraint must be so restricted as to be iden-
tical with the range of temperance and of intemperance,
and that, where other objects of desire are concerned,
(133.) there we find another form of incontinence, not known
as such simply, but in virtue of a transferred application
6. of the term. We will proceed to show that incontinence
of anger is less disgraceful than is incontinence of desire.
For, in the first place, it would seem that anger may, to
some extent, be said to hear the commands of reason,
but, at the same time, to mishear them; exactly as do
over-ready servants, who rush off before they have heard
all that is said, and then mistake their orders; or as
do dogs, who bark if they only hear a knock, without
waiting to see whether it be a friend. And exactly so
it would seem that, if a man's nature be hot and hasty,
anger catches at the commands of reason, but hurries to
vengeance without waiting to hear them out. Reason,
for instance, or, it may be, fancy, tells us that such a
thing is an insult or a slight, upon which anger, as it
were, completes the syllogism by adding, and all such
treatment ought to be resented,' and so at once waxes
hot against it; whereas desire only requires that the
reason, or even the senses, should assert that such or
such a particular thing is pleasant, and thereupon at once
rushes to the enjoyment of it. And hence anger may, to
a certain extent, be said to obey reason, while desire
cannot and hence, too, desire is the more disgraceful of
the two. He, indeed, who is incontinent of anger is
worsted, not by passion alone, but, to a certain extent,
by reason also; whereas he who is incontinent of his
desires, is worsted by simple lust alone, without any
admixture of reason. And, secondly, it is more excusable
in us to follow those impulses that are natural to us,
inasmuch as it is more excusable to give way to those
O
6
194
[Book VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
C
•
desires that are shared by all men alike, provided one
give way to them only in so far as they are so shared.
Now anger, and with it bitterness of spirit, is much more
a part of our nature than are those desires which are
excessive and not necessary. This one may illustrate by
the well-known story of the defence made by the man
who beat his father. Why,' said he, he used to beat
his own father, who had also beaten his father before him.
And this rascal here,' pointing to his son, will beat me as
soon as he grows man enough. It is a family failing
with us.' And then there is the story of the man who,
when his son was kicking him out of the house, besought
him to stop at the door, 'for,' said he, that is exactly as
far as I kicked your grandfather.' Thirdly, the more
the craft employed, the greater always is the injustice.
Now the passionate man is not crafty, nor does anger
dispose us to craft, but rather to open action. But desire
is always crafty, as is, men say, the Goddess of desires,—
the sea-born
Lady of Cyprus, weaver of deceits,
of whose embroidered girdle Homer thus speaks,
Cunning, which robbed the wisest of his wits.
(134) And hence it follows that, since incontinence of desire
is a more unjust thing than is incontinence of anger, and,
consequently, a more disgraceful, it, rather than incon-
tinence of anger, ought to be known by the simple term
'incontinence,'—amounting, as it does, almost to a form of
vice. Fourthly, no one ever feels pain in the commission of
an act of wanton insolence. Now he who acts in a passion
always feels pain in the act which he commits; whereas
he who acts from wanton insolence feels a pleasure. And
so, inasmuch as those acts are the most unjust with which
one has most right to be angry, it follows that incon-
Спар. VI.]
195
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
tinence of desire is more unjust than is incontinence of
anger; for anger, since it has in it no element of wanton
insolence, is less unprovoked, and so really less aggres-
sive, than is desire. Thus, then, it is self-evident that
incontinence of desire is a more disgraceful thing than is
incontinence of anger; and, also, that self-restraint and
incontinence, simply so called, are concerned with such
desires, that is to say with such pleasures, alone as are
strictly bodily. And, consequently, we must distinguish
these same bodily pleasures into their various kinds; for,
as we have said in the beginning, some among them are
human and natural, both in their kind and in their
extent, while others are brutal, and others, again, are
the results of mutilation or of disease. And with this
first class of pleasures alone it is that temperance
and intemperance are concerned. And hence we never
speak of brutes as being either temperate or intemperate,
unless it be by a conscious transferrence of the terms,
and an application of them to those cases where some
one kind of animal is distinguished from all others by its
lasciviousness, or by its destructiveness, or by its voracity.
For what are called the 'evil' acts of brutes are not done
with purpose, and involve no element of reason, but
are rather, as is acute mania in man, the result of an
abnormal physical condition. And so mere animal bru-
tality is less evil than is vice, although it may none the
less be more terrible. It is not that the best and noblest
principle has been corrupted, as in a depraved man, but
that it has no existence. It is almost the same kind
of comparison as if we were to ask which is worst,-
a lifeless thing, or a living? For evil of any kind is
always less injurious when it has in it no power of
externalising itself, such as has the reason.
One might,
indeed, as well ask which is the worst of the two,-
injustice, or an unjust man? In a certain sense, of course,
o 2
196
[Book VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
7.
each is worse than the other. It must, however, be
remembered that a wicked man can do ten thousand
times more evil than can any beast.
As regards the pleasures and the pains which come
from the senses of touch and of taste, and as regards the
desires and the aversions connected with them, with all
of which it is that intemperance and temperance are, by
the definitions of them which have been given before,
concerned, it is possible for our condition to be either.
such that we yield to things to which most men are
superior, or else such that we are superior to things
(135) to which most men yield. If it be pleasure with which
we are concerned, we are, in the former case, called
incontinent, and, in the latter, self-restrained; while, if it
be pain, then we are, in the former case, said to show
effeminacy, and, in the latter, endurance. The moral
disposition of the majority of mankind may be represented
as a balance between these extremes, combined with, it
may be, a tendency towards the worst. Now, amongst
our pleasures there are some which may be regarded as
necessary, while there are others, again, which are so
only when they are pursued to certain lengths and no
further,--all excess in them being as unnecessary as
perfect abstinence from them is uncalled for; and of
our desires and of our pains a similar rule holds good.
He then who pursues pleasure in excess, simply because
it is in excess, and who purposely chooses such excess for
its own sake, and entirely independently of any result, he
it is who is intemperate. For it is impossible that such a
man should ever repent; and hence he is hopelessly
incurable, for for him who repents not there is no hope of
cure. Diametrically opposed to the intemperate man is
he whose sense of bodily pleasure is deficient; the tem-
And what
perate man being midway between the two.
has been just said of intemperance will hold equally good
CHAP. VII.]
197
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
of him who avoids bodily pain, not from physical inability
to resist it, but with deliberate purpose. Where a man
acts without any such purpose, it may be either because
he yields to the attractions of pleasure, or because he
cannot withstand the pain which results from an unsatis-
fied desire; and between these two forms of error there
is a wide difference. Every one, however, will admit
that he who does a disgraceful act, being at the same
time free from desire, or at any rate feeling desire but
slightly, is more to be blamed than is he who does
such an act under the influence of a strong desire; and
that he who, when not in a passion, smites his neighbour,
is more to be blamed than is he who does so when in a
passion. For how would each have acted had he been
under the influence of a strong emotion? And hence it
is that the intemperate man is worse than is the incon-
tinent. Now of those whom we described above as
acting without deliberate purpose, the one ought properly
to be called effeminate, and the other incontinent. The
contradictory of incontinence is self-restraint, and that of
effeminacy is endurance: for to endure implies successful
resistance, while to restrain implies mastery; and resist-
ance differs from mastery, exactly as the glory of not
being vanquished differs from the glory of victory. And
hence it is that self-restraint is preferable to mere endur-
He who has too little strength to resist those
pains which most men can and do withstand,-he it is
whom we call effeminate and luxurious. Indeed, all
luxury is a form of effeminacy. Such a man trails his
robe to avoid the fatigue of lifting it, or feigns infirm
health, remaining in happy ignorance that to counterfeit
misery is misery itself. And with regard to self-restraint
(136.) and incontinence the same rule holds good. For where
a man is mastered by pleasures or by pains, which are
1 For ȧkóλaσтos read anрaтhs with Andronicus and others.
ance.
1
198
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
violent in kind and excessive in degree, his case does not.
call for our wonder, but rather, if he do his best to with-
stand them, for our pity. Such is the case of Philoctetes,
in the play of Theodectes, when he suffers from the
viper's bite; and of Cercyon, in the Alope of Carcinus;
and of those who, in the attempt to restrain their laugh-
ter, give vent to it in one great paroxysm, as happened to
Xenophantus. Our wonder is rather due where a man
is so far mastered by pains or pleasures against which the
majority of men can successfully hold out, as to be alto-
gether unable to withstand them,—and that not from
disease, or from any hereditary or natural weakness, as
is the case with the Scythian Kings, with whom effemi-
nacy is hereditary, or with women, who are constitu-
tionally weaker than are men. He who is overmuch given
to amusements has sometimes been held to be intemperate,
but he is in reality only effeminate; for all amusement is
a species of relaxation, and is consequently intended to act
as a relief to the troubles of serious life. But still such
relief
may be sought to excess, and one form of such ex-
cess is an over-fondness for amusements. Of incontinence,
again, there are two kinds, the one of which consists in
hastiness, and the other in weakness. For, on the one hand,
there are some who, after all due deliberation as to the
course which they ought to adopt, are weak enough to
allow incontinence to force them from the conclusion at
which they have arrived; and, on the other hand, there
are some who are hurried away by incontinence, because
they have never deliberated at all, I say some,' for
of course there are others who act as do children in
their play, who tickle their companions beforehand to
escape being tickled themselves,-who foresee tempta-
tion, and anticipate it, and who so put themselves upon
their mettle, and so forearm their reason that, however
great may be the pleasure, or however great the pain,
CHAP. VIII.]
199
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
8.
they are never mastered by it. That incontinence which
takes the form of over-hastiness is chiefly to be found in
those whose temperament is either over-passionate, or else
atrabilious. For in the former case impetuosity, and
in the latter a sort of savage violence, leads them to
follow the crude conceptions of the imagination, and to
abandon the deliberate convictions of reason.
When, then, a man is absolutely intemperate and
debauched, repentance has, as we have said, no place in
him. For he has made evil his good, and by that pur-
pose he abides.
But the incontinent man is always open
to repentance. And consequently the conclusion to which
our former problems seemed to lead must be incorrect;
for, while the intemperate man is incurable, the incon-
tinent man is open to cure. Indeed, intemperance may
be fairly likened to such diseases as dropsy and consump-
tion, and incontinence to epilepsy; for the one is a con-
(137.) tinuous evil, while the other is intermittent. And we
can further see that incontinence and intemperance are
specifically distinct, in that the intemperate man is
unconscious that he is acting wrongly, whereas incon-
tinence is always conscious. Of the two forms of incon-
tinence, that in which we are altogether carried away by
the violence and the haste of our emotions is not so bad
as is that in which our emotions cause us to abandon a
conviction at which we had previously arrived; for, in
the latter case, not only is the emotion by which we are
mastered less in itself, but it also does not, as in the
former, attack us so suddenly as to leave no time for
reflection. Indeed, the incontinent man is not unlike those
who quickly get drunk, and that with very little wine,
or, at any rate, with less than most drinkers. It is clear,
then, that intemperance and incontinence must not be
confounded with one another. But yet they have one point
in common. The intemperate man, it is true, acts in pursuit
200
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
of his purpose, while the incontinent man acts in opposition to
his purpose; but still their acts are similar. It is much as
Demodocus said of the people of Miletus, the Milesians
are not fools, but they act like fools.' And so the incontinent.
are not themselves confirmedly bad, but their acts are none
the less the acts of bad men. There are, then, as we have
said, two types of character, of which the one is such as
to lead a man to pursue bodily pleasures which are
excessive and opposed to all right reason, not so much
because he is convinced that they ought to be pursued, as
because he is mastered by them; while the other leads to
the deliberate conviction that such pleasures are right,
and ought to be pursued. And so, in the former case, a
man still remains open to the true conviction, in the
latter case he does not. For virtue preserves right prin-
ciples, vice corrupts them; and the principles which
action involves are correct conceptions of the true end of
life; much as the principles involved in mathematics are
those correct conceptions of the various geometrical
figures, which are contained in definitions postulating the
existence of their object. And, exactly as in mathematics
it is not by deduction that we acquire our first principles,
so neither is it here; the true principles of morality being
given us by virtue, which is either, as some say, natural
to us, or, as we say, acquired by habituation, and which
leads us to form right conceptions as to moral principles.
He in whom this virtue is to be found-he it is who is the
temperate man; he whose character is the very contrary
of this, who is intemperate. There is also another type
of character, such that a man, in violation of all right
reason, is forced by the strength of his passions to abandon
his resolutions. Such a man is so far overcome by his
passions that he does not act as right reason orders, but
still not so far overcome as to deliberately adopt the
conviction that all such pleasures ought to be unre-
CHAP. IX.]
201
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
3
9.
(138.)
strainedly pursued, and to mould his character in accord-
ance with it. This it is who is the incontinent man, and
who is better than is the intemperate, inasmuch as he is
not yet absolutely depraved; for the best thing in us-
correct moral principle-remains in him intact. Opposed
to him is another type of character-that of the man who
so abides by his resolutions that no passion ever forces
him from them. And enough has now been said to show
that this latter is a good state of mind, and that incon-
tinence, as contrasted with it, is bad.
Are we then to assert that the man of self-restraint
is he who abides by his conviction, quite independently of
what that conviction may be, and by his purpose, quite
independently of what that purpose may be; or is he
rather he who abides by his purpose because that pur-
pose is right and good? And so, too, of the incontinent
man: is he the man who abandons his purpose, no matter
what that purpose be, and his conviction, no matter what
that conviction be, or, rather, the man who abandons a
conviction which is true, and a purpose which is right;-
to which result the problems previously discussed seem to
lead? Or shall we not rather say of self-restraint and of
incontinence, that they respectively consist in abiding by
and in abandoning a conviction, or, in other words, a
purpose, which indirectly may be of any kind or sort
whatever, but which essentially must be true and right?
The distinction between what is essential and what is
accidental may be thus illustrated. Where a man
chooses or pursues a certain thing as a means to a certain
other thing, we say of him, in such a case, that he chooses.
or pursues the end simply, or directly, or essentially, the
means indirectly, or incidentally; so that simply' and
1 For τῷ ψευδεῖ λόγῳ καὶ τῇ προαιρέσει τῇ μὴ ὀρθῇ read τῷ ἀψευδεῖ λόγῳ
καὶ τῇ προαιρέσει τῇ ὀρθῇ according to the conjecture of Coraes, or else τῷ
μὴ ψειδεῖ λόγῳ καὶ τῇ προαιρέσει τῇ ὀρθῇ.
202
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
6
C
'essentially' must be understood to be convertible terms.
And hence, while self-restraint and incontinence may
indirectly lead to our either abiding by or abandoning an
opinion that is to say, a purpose-of any kind whatever,
yet the essence of self-restraint and of incontinence is
that we should either abide by or abandon a true opinion,
or, in other words, a good purpose; and this is what is to
be understood by the terms simple self-restraint' and
'simple incontinence.' There are also certain persons
who abide fixedly by their opinions, and who are said to
show strength of character,' or obstinacy,' inasmuch as
it is difficult to convince them, and still more difficult to
reason them out of their previous convictions. This type
of character has a certain resemblance to self-restraint
(as has prodigality to liberality, and fool-hardiness to
courage), but yet differs from it in many important points.
For, although the man of self-restraint does not allow
passion or desire to move him from his purpose, yet he is
none the less open to conviction upon fitting occasions;
whereas the obstinate are unaffected by any arguments,
although they often conceive strong desires, and are in
many cases led by their pleasures. Obstinacy has various
forms. Sometimes it shows itself as egotism and opiniona-
tiveness, and at times as stolid ignorance, and at times as
surly boorishness. Egotism involves certain pleasures and
pains of its own; for when the egotistical man remains.
unconvinced he feels all the pleasure of a victory, and
when it has been conclusively shown that he is in the
wrong, he is as grieved as if he had been defeated upon a
ministerial division. And hence it would seem that
egotism resembles incontinence rather than self-restraint.
There are also, on the other hand, certain persons who
abandon their previous convictions from a kind of quasi-
incontinence, as does, for instance, Neoptolemus in the
Philoctetes of Sophocles. It is a pleasure that forces
CHAP. IX.]
203
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
(139.)
him from his resolution, but still a noble pleasure.
For
be gloried in the truth, and Ulysses had persuaded him
to lie. And hence we see that it does not follow that,
because a man acts under the influence of pleasure, he is
on that account intemperate, or depraved, or even incon-
tinent, unless that pleasure be in itself bad.
| There is, moreover, another type of character,
which is such that a man takes less pleasure than he
ought in bodily enjoyment, and on this account abandons
the right convictions which he has formed. Between
this and incontinence, self-restraint stands as it were
midway, and so forms the mean. For, while the incon-
tinent man abandons his convictions because he is over-
fond of bodily pleasure, he whom we have described
abandons them because he is not sufficiently fond of it;
whereas the man of self-restraint abides by his convictions,
and is not to be moved from them either by over-love of
pleasure, or by over-sensibility. Now, inasmuch as self-
restraint is a good thing, it follows that the two extreme
and mutually contrary habits must be bad; as is indeed
clearly the case. But, because the one of the two is to
be found in but few cases, and very seldom, it follows
that it is self-restraint which is ordinarily opposed to
incontinence; exactly as it is temperance which is or-
dinarily contrasted with intemperance. A name is often
transferred from its proper object to others which more
or less resemble it; and, by a transferrence of this kind,
we have become accustomed to speak of the self-restraint'
of the temperate man. For the temperate man and the
man of self-restraint resemble each other in that neither
is ever induced by bodily pleasure to act in violation of
right reason; but they differ from one another in that
the latter has bad desires while the former has not; and
also in that the character of the former is such that a
pleasure which violates right reason is to him no pleasure
(
204
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
at all; while that of the latter is such that, although
capable of pleasures of this kind, he yet does not allow
them to influence him. Between the incontinent man
and the intemperate man there is an analogous relation;
for both alike pursue bodily pleasure, but they differ from
one another in that the one holds that it is right to pursue
10. such pleasures, and the other does not. It is, moreover,
impossible that the same man should be at once prudent
and incontinent; for, as has before been shown, he who is
prudent cannot but be. morally good. Besides, the
essence of prudence is not merely that a man should
know what is good, but that he should have that know-
ledge, and should act up to it; and this the incontinent
man can hardly be said to do. But mere cleverness is
perfectly compatible with incontinence; and hence it is
that men sometimes seem to be prudent, and yet at the
same time incontinent:- the true explanation being that
cleverness differs from prudence, as has before been
pointed out; for it involves a similar element of mere
intellectual ability, but not the same soundness of moral
purpose. Moreover, the incontinent man sins with know-
ledge, not in the sense in which he has knowledge who
makes conscious use of the knowledge which he possesses,
but rather in the sense in which those may be said to
have knowledge in whom sleep has produced a temporary
oblivion, or intoxication a temporary insanity. And he
also acts voluntarily, inasmuch as, in a certain sense, he
may be said to know both what it is that he does and why
it is that he does it. But yet he must not be set down as
absolutely bad and depraved; for the general tenor of his
purpose remains, as a whole, good: so that he is, as it
(140.) were, only | half depraved. Neither is he unjust; for he
plots against no man, inasmuch as he is either too weak to
abide by the plans upon which he may have determined, or
else of too atrabilious a temperament to form any plans
CHAP. XI.]
205
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
whatever. The incontinent man, indeed, is not unlike a
State which passes every possible measure that may be
required, and which has admirable laws, but which never
carries its measures into effect, and makes no use of its
laws; as runs the pasquinade of Anaxandrides,
That State hath willed it to which laws are naught.
Whereas the intemperate man is rather to be compared
to a State which carries its laws into thorough effect,-
only that its laws are bad laws. Moreover, incontinence
and self-restraint are each concerned with that which,
after its kind, passes the ordinary limits of human action.
For the man of self-restraint abides by his resolution
more firmly than do the majority of mankind, while the
incontinent man abandons his resolutions sooner. Lastly,
of the various forms of incontinence, that admits of more
hope of a successful cure from which those suffer whose
temperament is atrabilious, than does that of those who
form elaborate convictions, by which they do not after-
wards abide; and that incontinence which is the result of
habit is more curable than is that incontinence which
originates in physical causes; for habit is more easily to
be altered than is nature. Indeed, the very reason why
habit is so hard to alter is only because, as Evenus says,
it comes at last to resemble nature-
II.
For use doth breed a habit in a man,
And perfect habit is a second nature.
Thus, then, we have stated the nature of self-restraint,
and of incontinence, and of endurance, and of effeminacy,
and also the mutual relations of these various habits to
one another; and it now remains to treat of pleasure and
of pain. For pleasure and pain are subjects which he
ought to consider who would treat of politics philosophi-
cally, inasmuch as it is his task to frame that supreme
:
[BOOK VII.
206
THE NICOMACHEAN
.
6
conception of the true end of life, with reference to which.
it is that we speak of our acts as having an ultimate ten-
dency either for good or for bad. The investigation is,
moreover, necessary for several other reasons. We have
said that virtue and vice are concerned with our pains
and our pleasures; and, moreover, most men assert that
pleasure is involved in all happiness; and hence it is that
they speak of the happy man as being blessed,'—the
(141.) word blessedness' etymologically signifying | full of
pleasure.' Now there are some who hold that no plea-
sure whatever is either directly or indirectly good-in
fact, that' pleasant' and 'good' can never be equivalent
terms. Others, again, hold that while some pleasures are
good, yet the majority of them are bad. And, lastly,
there is yet a third view which, while it admits that
pleasures may be good as a class, yet denies that the
chief good can ever possibly be a pleasure of any kind.
In support of the first view, that pleasure is in no sense
a good, the following arguments are urged. Firstly, all
pleasure whatever is a phenomenon of sense, consisting in
a process of alternation between two poles, and resulting
in a natural, and consequently perfect, physical condition.
But no such process is ever akin to the end in which it
results: there is, for example, no affinity between a house
and the process of building a house. Secondly, the tem-
perate man avoids pleasures. Thirdly, that which the pru-
dent man pursues is not so much pleasure as freedom from
pain. Fourthly, pleasure of any kind is a direct obstacle
to the exercise of reason; and the more intense is the
pleasure, the more will this be true.
sexual pleasure is a good instance,
thought of any kind is impossible.
art of pleasure; and yet every good
which it is procured. Sixthly, children and beasts pursue
pleasures indiscriminately. In proof of the position that
And of this the
for, while it lasts,
Fifthly, there is no
thing has an art by
CHAP XII.]
207
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
…'','' ༦.ཛཱནྟ
12.
all pleasures alike are not good, it is urged that some
pleasures are disgraceful, and are held in merited repro-
bation; and that others are absolutely injurious, for that
instances can be given of things which produce pleasure,
and which are bad for health. Lastly, to prove that
pleasure is not the chief good, it is urged that it is not an
absolute end in itself, but only a process of alternation,
resulting in such an end.
Such, then, or nearly such, are the various arguments
that have been brought forward. We will now proceed
to show that neither do they prove that pleasure is not
in itself a good, nor even that it is not the chief good.
In the first place, we can use the term 'good' in two
distinct senses; for by it we may mean either that which
is good absolutely, that is to say for all members alike of
such or such a class; or else that which is good relatively,
that is to say good for such or such a particular member
of a given class, but not for others. In accordance with
this distinction, our permanent states, whether natural or
acquired, may be spoken of as either absolutely or rela-
tively good; and hence our processes, whether of con-
tinuous development or of alternation, may, even where
they seem to be bad, be bad absolutely, or in the abstract,
but not relatively, inasmuch as for such or such a person
they may be choiceworthy; and others among them,
again, may not perhaps always be even relatively good,
but may only be good for such or such an individual upon
certain particular occasions, and for a short time. These
latter are not really pleasures at all, although they seem
to be so. They are always accompanied by a pain, and
are pursued for the sake of ultimate relief. One may
instance the peculiar pleasures sometimes felt by the sick.
Secondly, there is yet another division of goods, into good
habits, or permanent states, and good energies, or activi-
ties, or acts, in and by which these states are manifested.
208
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
And hence it is clear that those processes which restore
us to our natural state are good¹ indirectly, or in their
result, if not good directly and in themselves. Where
we experience a physical desire, which, inasmuch as it
is accompanied by a pain, is of course the expression of
a defect in some part of our organisation, the pleasure
which accompanies the satisfaction of such a desire is the
spontaneous expression of those parts of our organisation,
whether acquired or primitive, that have all along re-
mained unaffected. And there are, moreover, certain
pleasures which are unaccompanied by pain and by physi-
cal desire, and which consequently involve no defect in
our organisation,-such as are, for instance, the plea-
(142.) sures of philosophy. In illustration of the distinction
just drawn it may be remarked that the objects which
yield us pleasure while our organisation is being per-
fected, do not yield us pleasure when it is perfect. When
our organisation is perfect, then those objects give us
pleasure of which we have already spoken as directly or
absolutely pleasant; but, while it is being restored, we
take pleasure in the absolute contraries of these, as, for
instance, in vinegar, and in gall, and in other such things,
no one of which is pleasant in itself, or absolutely
pleasant. And, of course, the pleasures which such
objects yield fall under the same rule; for, exactly
as the objects that yield us pleasure are related to one
another, so, too, are the pleasures which they yield.
Neither does it of necessity follow that all pleasure
involves a something beyond and better than itself, as
those say who assert that all pleasure is a physical pro-
cess, and is consequently inferior to the end in which it
results. For it is not true of all pleasures that they are
processes of this kind, or even that they all involve any
For deía read σrovdaîai, according to Mr. Chandler's emendation.
I
209
CHAP. XII.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
such process; inasmuch as some of them are the sponta-
neous expressions of a perfect nature, and are, as such,
absolute ends in themselves. Pleasure is not always the
result of a physical process towards perfection, inasmuch
as it often accompanies the exercise of a perfectly sound
faculty. And so it is not true of all pleasures alike that
they imply an end beyond themselves, but it is only true
of the pleasures which those feel who are moving towards
a perfect state of organisation. And hence we can see
that pleasure is incorrectly defined as a phenomenon of
sense, consisting in an alternation between two poles, and
ultimately resulting in a perfect physical organisation; '
but that we ought rather to speak of it as the sponta-
neous expression of our natural condition,' and to call it
'an ‘
C
<
an unhindered activity,' instead of a sensible pheno-
menon.' Nay, more, so far is it from being true that
pleasure must be bad because it is a process, that some
people actually hold that pleasure cannot but be a process
because it is so distinctively a good. These thinkers,
however, confound two things that are really distinct,
namely, processes and activities. And, again, to say that
all pleasures are bad, because some things that give plea-
sure are bad for health, is as absurd as to say that all
health is bad, because some things that are good for
health are bad for making money. Of course, from an
indirect point of view such as this, both things pleasant
and things healthy may appear to be bad; but it does
not follow on this account that they are directly and
absolutely bad. Even philosophy may, if pursued under
certain conditions, be bad for health. And, again, it is
not true that the exercise of prudence, or indeed that of
any other similar state or habit, is hindered by its own
pleasure, but only that it is hindered by what may be
called the alien pleasures which result from the exercise
of other habits. For the pleasures of contemplation and
P
210
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
of investigation only intensify the acts which they accom-
pany. And, again, that there should be no art of plea-
sure is only what might have been expected; for, indeed,
no art ever aims at producing an actual act, but only a
capability for such an act. And yet perfumery and
cookery would seem to be arts of pleasure. Lastly, one
and the same answer may be given to the arguments,
that the temperate man avoids pleasure, that what the
prudent man pursues is not so much pleasure as a life
free from pain, and that beasts and children pursue plea-
(143.) sure indiscriminately. We have already | said in what
sense it is that some pleasures are good absolutely, and in
what sense it is that some pleasures are good only rela-
tively; from which, of course, it follows that all pleasures
alike are not absolutely good. Now it is this latter class.
of pleasures-those, namely, that are only relatively good
--that beasts and children pursue; and it is freedom from
the pain caused by the desires which these pleasures
satisfy that the prudent man pursues: we are speaking
here of the pleasures that are preceded by physical desire,
and consequently by pain,-or, in other words, of the
bodily pleasures, which alone are of this kind,—and not
so much of bodily pleasure simply, as of its excess, with
which excess it is that intemperance is concerned. These
alone are the pleasures which the temperate man avoids,
since even temperance has pleasures of its own.
13.
Moreover, it is admitted that pain is an evil, and a
thing to be avoided; for some sorts of pain are directly
and absolutely bad, others indirectly, in that they in some
way impede those energies which are the free expression
of our nature. But the opposite of that which ought to
be avoided, in so far as it ought to be avoided, and is
consequently bad, must itself be good: and therefore
pleasure cannot but, from this point of view at least, be a
good. The solution attempted by Speusippus does not
CHAP. XIII.]
2II
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
really hold,—namely, that pleasure and pain are the
contraries of one another, and also of the good, in exactly
the same way as the greater is the contrary of the less,
while each is the contrary of that which is exactly equal,
-for this solution involves what nobody will admit, that
all pleasure alike is the contrary of the good, and conse-
quently a form of evil. Nor does the fact that certain.
pleasures are bad, in any way render it impossible that
some one pleasure should be the chief good; exactly as it
is none the less conceivable that some particular science.
should be the chief good, because certain other kinds of
knowledge are bad. And perhaps, too, it necessarily
follows, inasmuch as each one of our faculties can only
express itself when its activities are unimpeded, that,
whether happiness consist in the conjoint activity of all
our faculties, or whether in the activity of some particular
one amongst them, it must, if it is to be the most choice-
worthy of all goods, be unimpeded: and it is in an unim-
peded energy of this kind that pleasure, by our very
definition, consists. And from this it follows that it is
perfectly possible for some one pleasure to be the chief
good, although the majority are, very possibly, absolutely
bad. And hence it is that all men hold that the happy
life has a pleasure of its own, and weave into the chaplet
of happiness the blossom of pleasure,—and that, too, with
good reason. For no activity can be perfect if it be
impeded, and happiness is a perfect thing. And hence,
too, it is that the happy man requires, in addition to his
virtue, bodily goods and goods external, or in other
words the goods of chance, that the activities in which hist
happiness consists may be unimpeded. Those who assert
that he who is being tortured upon the wheel, or he who
is entangled in sore misfortunes, is none the less happy,
provided only that he be good, are, either consciously or
unconsciously, indulging in empty talk. And yet happi-
P 2
212
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
ness must not be identified with mere prosperity, as some
have been led to think from the fact that good fortune is
(144) in it an essential element. | For even good fortune may
become so excessive as to impede our better energies; and
it has then perhaps no longer any just claim to be called
good fortune, since the limits of good fortune are deter-
mined by its influence upon our happiness. And, more-
over, the fact that all beings whatever, beasts and men
alike, pursue pleasure, is an indication that it is in some
sort the highest good.
When many people lift their voices up,
Their words tall not in vain.
But still, inasmuch as there is no one natural organisation.
or acquired condition, which is either best for all beings
alike, or held by them to be such, it follows that all beings
alike do not pursue the same pleasure, although a plea-
sure of some kind they all do pursue. Nay, more, per-
haps the pleasure which they are each and all pursuing,
is not that which they think, or even that which they
would avow, but is for all of them alike one and the
same; for there is nothing but has in its nature a divine
element. The bodily pleasures have entered into the
exclusive heritage of the name, because it is to them that
men most often give themselves, and because there is no
human being incapable of sharing in them: and so, be-
cause these are the only pleasures which men know, they
think that they are the only pleasures that exist. Lastly,
it is clear that, unless pleasure, that is to say the ac-
tivity which is involved in pleasure, were a good thing,
we should not be able to say of the happy man that his
life is pleasant. For why should he stand in need of
pleasure, if pleasure be not a good thing, and if it be
indifferent whether or not life be painful? Indeed, pain
could not possibly be an evil (or even a good), unless
CHAP. XIV.]
213
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
14.
pleasure were the contrary. And so, why should the
happy man avoid pain? Nor, indeed, should we say of
the good man that his life is more pleasant than is that of
others, were it not that a higher pleasure is involved in
his acts.
As regards the distinctly bodily pleasures, their nature
demands a thorough investigation on the part of those
who assert that some pleasures indeed are very choice-
worthy, to wit, the nobler pleasures,-but not so the
bodily pleasures, which are the objects of intemperance.
If this be so, why is it-one may ask that the bodily
pains, which are their opposites, are held to be bad?
For the opposite of the bad can only be the good. May
not one say that the bodily or necessary pleasures are
good, in so far as that is a good which is not bad? Or
may not one rather say that they are good, when not
pursued beyond a certain point? For those habits or
processes which never in themselves exceed the limits of
what is good, cannot possibly involve any over-excess of
pleasure, such excess of pleasure being only possible
where the activity in which it is involved can exceed
(145.) these limits. Now in the case of bodily goods this excess
is possible; and, indeed, the intemperate man is such, not
merely in that he pursues the bodily or necessary plea-
sures, but in that he pursues them to excess. (Indeed all
men take pleasure to a certain extent in good cookery,
and in wine, and in sexual enjoyment, although it is not
all men in whom the enjoyment of such pleasures is
properly regulated.) But, in his avoidance of pain, the
intemperate man is guided by a rule contrary to that
which regulates his pursuit of pleasure. For it is not.
excessive pain alone that he avoids, but pain of any kind.
Indeed, it is only the intemperate man, who pursues
excessive pleasure as a good, who would think of opposing
to such excess all ordinary pain alike as an evil.
214
[BOOK VII
THE NICOMACHEAN
We must not, however, confine ourselves to a bare
statement of the truth, but must also inquire into the
grounds of the ordinary and erroneous view.
Such a
course will only serve to strengthen our own convictions.
For, when we see clearly the grounds that have led to
the acceptance of an error, our belief in the truth is all
the more strengthened. It remains then that we should
state why it is that the bodily pleasures have been held to
be more choiceworthy than others. In the first place,
they have been held to be such, because they can drive
out bodily pain: and it is because bodily pain is often
excessive, and bodily pleasure acts as a remedy to it, that
men are led to pursue such forms of pleasure as admit of
excess, and indeed to pursue bodily pleasure as a whole.
Remedies are in their very nature violent; and hence it
is that pleasure is sometimes pursued to an almost vio-
lent excess, because, from its opposition to the pain which
it drives out, and with which it is contrasted, our concep-
tion of it becomes intensified. But yet it is on these
very grounds that, as has been said before, it has been
held that pleasure is not a good,—and that for two rea-
sons. For, firstly, there are certain pleasures which are
peculiar to the acts of a nature either naturally depraved,
as in a beast, or corrupted by long habit, as in bad men.
And, secondly, there are certain others which are of the
nature of remedies, and, to feel which, a man must first
have a want to be supplied,—and, it may be said, it is
better to be sound than to become so. But still such
pleasures are the indirect result of a process tending
towards our perfection, and so are indirectly good, if not
good in themselves. In the second place, bodily pleasure
is often pursued, simply because it is intense, by those
who are unable to take pleasure in other things: such
men resemble those who are in the habit of producing
artificial thirst. When their pleasures are harmless, their
CHAP. XIV.]
215
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
conduct need not be blamed, but when they are injurious,
it becomes distinctly bad. Such men have no other
sources of pleasure open to them; and such is the organi-
sation of the majority of mankind that a purely neutral
state is absolutely painful to them. There is, indeed, no
living thing for which the process of life does not involve
a perpetual travail. To this truth the writings of physio-
logists bear witness, which tell us that every act of sight
and of hearing involves a pain, which, from long custom,
has become imperceptible. It is from causes of the same
(146.) kind that the stimulus of physical | growth acts upon the
young as a kind of chronic intoxication, so that youth
becomes a thing full of pleasure. And, similarly, an atra-
bilious temperament is constantly craving for remedy.
For the absence of proper balance in the organisation
produces a chronic irritation, and so leads to violent
physical cravings. Now a pain can be driven out not
only by the pleasure which is its contrary, but indeed by
any pleasure whatever of sufficient intensity; and hence
it is that men become intemperate and depraved. But
those pleasures which are not preceded by bodily desirc,
and so by pain, cannot possibly be pursued to excess.
These are the pleasures given us by those objects that are
pleasant naturally and directly, and not indirectly. By
indirectly or incidentally pleasant must be understood
those objects that are of the nature of remedies; for,
when the unsound part of our organisation is cured, the
indirect result is an unimpeded energy of that part which
has all along remained sound; and hence it is that a
pleasure seems to attach itself to all processes of healing.
But the term naturally or directly pleasant must be
restricted to those objects that directly stimulate to activity
the sound portion of our organisation. Lastly, the reason
why one and the same thing never continuously yields us
pleasure, is because our organisation is not simple, con-
216
[BOOK VII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
:
E
sisting, not only of the soul, but also of a second element,
the body, which is ours in virtue of our material exist-
ence. And hence it often results that the proper activities
of the one element do violence to those of the other. But,
when the two are in harmonious equilibrium, then the
energies of the mind are indifferent to the body, and
affect it neither with pain nor with pleasure. And thus
we can see that, were the organisation of any being
absolutely simple, the same act would always continu-
ously yield it a pleasure of the highest kind and of the
most intense degree. And hence it is that the pleasure
felt by God must be single, continuous, and simple.
Such a pleasure God cannot but feel. For activity is
not restricted to states of development, in which there is
a process from inchoation to perfection, but belongs also
to those absolutely perfect states, which are at rest from
any such process; and it is in repose, rather than in the
struggle of development, that true pleasure is to be found.
Change of all things is sweetest,
as the poet says, because of some defect in our nature.
And, exactly as it is the bad man who loves change, so,
too, the nature that always craves for change is bad: it is
not simple, nor is it good.
Thus, then, we have treated of self-restraint, and of
incontinence, and of pleasure, and of pain, and have
defined each one of them, and have said how it is that
some of them are good and others are evil.
It now
remains for us to treat of friendship.
...
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
217
7
VIII.
I. NEXT in order it follows that we ought to treat of friend-
(147) ship. For friendship, if not in itself a virtue, at least
involves and implies virtue; and it is, moreover, an abso-
lute essential for a happy life, since without friends no
man would choose to live, although possessed of every
other good thing. And, indeed, it is when men are rich,
or possessed of high office, or of great hereditary power,
that they seem most especially to stand in need of friends.
For wherein does such prosperity profit us, if we are de-
prived of the power of doing good to others, of which
power friends are the especial object, and which is most
praiseworthy when exercised in their behalf; or how can
such prosperity be guarded and preserved without the aid
of friends? For the greater it is, the more precarious
will it be. In poverty, moreover, and in all other forms
of evil fortune, friends are held to be our only refuge.
And to the young friendship is of aid in that it keeps
them clear of faults, and to the old in that it gives kindly
attention, and supplies those deficiencies in action which
are always the result of infirmity, and to those who are in
their full prime in that it makes noble achievements
easier:
The two together stepping,
are the better able both to think and to act. It would
seem, moreover, that it is a law of nature that the off-
spring should feel a love for its parent, and the parent for
its offspring; and that this law holds good not among
F
218
[Book VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
men alone, but among birds also, and with them almost
all other living things; and, indeed, that a mutual affec-
tion should exist in all beings of the same kind, and most
of all in men; and hence it is that we praise those who
love their fellow-men. In travel, too, one can see at
once how kindred a thing and how dear is man to man.
Friendship would, moreover, seem to form a bond of
union which holds together the body politic, and about
which legislators busy themselves even more than they do
about justice. For unanimity is a thing not unlike
(148.) friendship, | and the two especial objects of legislators
are to create unanimity, and to drive out dissension;
which latter is inimical to the well-being of the state.
Where, moreover, friendship exists, there we stand in no
need of justice; but, where justice exists, there we none
the less stand in need of friendship; nay, more, those
acts in which justice is most perfectly manifested bear a
close resemblance to acts of friendship. Lastly, friend-
ship is not only a necessary thing, but also a noble; for
we praise those who love their friends, and to have many
friends is held to be a something noble; nay, more, there
are some who think that 'good man' and '
and 'friend' are
convertible terms.
6
Now, concerning friendship not a few controver-
sies have been raised. Some hold that it consists in a
species of similarity, and that it is those who resemble
one another who become friends: whence come the say-
ings a man is known by his friends,' birds of a
feather flock together,' and other proverbs to the same
effect. And, on the other hand, there are some who
assert that all those who are of the same disposition are
like the potter in the adage. And there are others again
who have investigated this same question yet more
deeply, going back to first principles, and to the primary
СПАР. П.]
219
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
•
Tematicia was mai
2.
laws of the universe; as does Euripides, when he says,-
The parched earth yearns for rain. The holy Heaven,
Laden with showers, yearns to descend in rain
Upon the earth beneath.
And so, too, Heraclitus tells us that contradictories are
identical,' and that
C
6
the union of discords is the sweetest
concord,' and that strife is the life of all things.' Em-
pedocles, again, and others with him, have advanced views.
diametrically opposed to these, holding it to be a primary
law of nature that like should be attracted by like. All
those problems, however, in which are involved such
primary physical truths as the above, may, with safety,
be dismissed, as being alien to our present investigation;
and we will confine our attention to those questions alone
which have distinct reference to man, and which concern
the character and the emotions; as, for example, whether
all men alike are capable of friendship, or whether it is
impossible for bad men to be friends; and whether there
is but one kind of friendship, or more than one. For it
would seem that those who hold that there is but one
kind of friendship, which, because it varies in degree of
intensity, appears to be distinguishable into more kinds
than one, base their assertion upon insufficient grounds;
inasmuch as there are instances of things which, although
distinct from one another in kind, can yet participate in
one and the same quality in different degrees. Of this
question we have treated before.
The difficulty as to the various kinds of friend-
ship will, however, probably find its solution, if we
first determine what it is that is the object of affec-
(149.) tion. For it would seem that affection has its | legi-
timate objects, and is not exercised indiscriminately ;
and that the legitimate object of affection is either
that which is good, or else that which is pleasant, or else
that which is useful. Now that which is useful would
220
[Book VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
seem to be that by means of which we attain any-
thing either good or pleasant; so that the three objects of
affection really resolve themselves into two, namely, the
good, and the pleasant, towards which we feel an affec-
tion as towards absolute ends. It remains to inquire
whether the object of our affection is that which is good.
really and in the abstract, or that which is good for our
own individual selves; for these two are not always iden-
tical. And with regard to what is pleasant a similar
question can be raised. Now it would seem that each
one of us feels an affection for that which is good for his
own and individual self; and that, consequently, it is
that which is good really and in the abstract which is
really and in the abstract the object of affection; while
that which is good for the individual will be the object of
affection to him as an individual. It is, then, admitted
that the individual sets his affections, not so much upon
that which is really and truly good for him, as upon that
which he conceives to be such. But, still, this does not
really affect our position; for we have only to say that
the object upon which the individual sets his affections, is
not so much the true object of affection as that which
appears to him to be such. There are, then, as we have
said, three things that excite our affection; but, where
we are led by any one of these to feel an affection for a
lifeless object, such an affection is not called a friendship,
inasmuch as in it no reciprocity of affection is involved,
nor any wish that that object may enjoy the highest
good of which it is capable. It is, indeed, almost ridi-
culous to talk of wishing wine all the good which it can
enjoy, our highest wish with regard to it being that it
may be preserved in safety for our own enjoyment. But,
in the case of a friend, we say that we ought to wish him
all possible good for his own sake. Those who wish good
to others after this fashion, are said to show kindly feel-
СВАР. ПІ.]
221
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
3.
ing, except in those cases where they meet with similar
good wishes in return,—for a reciprocity of kindly feel-
ing is commonly held to constitute friendship. Ought
we not, however, to add the further condition that such
reciprocity must be conscious? For it is quite possible.
for us to have a kindly feeling towards those whom we
have never seen, but whom we, nevertheless, suppose to be
good men, or useful. And it is, of course, conceivable
that there should be some among them who are similarly
affected towards ourselves. In such a case there evidently
exists between us a reciprocity of kindly feeling. But
still we cannot possibly be called friends, inasmuch as
each of us is unconscious of the feeling of the other
towards himself. In a word, to constitute friendship it
is necessary that men should, for some one of the three
reasons above given, have a kindly feeling towards one
another, and a mutual desire each for the other's good, and
that each should be conscious of this reciprocity of sen-
timent.
The three objects of affection above described differ
from one another in kind; and hence it follows that there
will also be exactly as many distinct kinds of affection,
and, consequently, as many distinct kinds of friendship.
There are, indeed, three kinds of friendship, one for each
of the three objects of affection; for each of these three
objects can give rise to a conscious reciprocity of affec-
tion. Now, those who have a friendship for one another,
will wish one another good from the point of view of
that motive in which their friendship originates. And
hence those whose friendship for one another is based
upon utility, feel no affection for one another, each for
the other's own sake, but only in so far as each derives
(150.) from the other some actual benefit. And so, too, of those
whose friendship is based upon pleasure, a similar rule.
holds good; for we do not feel any affection for a witty
M
222
[Book VII
THE NICOMACHEAN
1
man merely in that he is witty, but because his wit gives
us pleasure. And hence we can see that the affection of
those whose friendship is based upon utility, originates in
a sense of their own advantage; and similarly that the
affection of those whose friendship is based upon pleasure
originates in a sense of their own enjoyment; or that, in
a word, they do not love their friend for his own sake,
and because his character is what it is, but because he is
useful to them, or because he yields them pleasure.
These friendships, then, originate incidentally, as an in-
direct result of self-seeking. For in them our friend is.
held dear to us, not for his own sake, and because he is
of such or such a type of character, but because we derive
from him, as the case may be, either pleasure, or else some
practical advantage. And hence it is that all such
friendships are liable to be quickly broken off, the moment
that the friend ceases to be such as he first was; for, when
he becomes, as the case may be, either no longer pleasant
or no longer useful, then all affection for him ceases.
our material interest is by no means a permanent thing,
but is, on the contrary, liable to continual change. And
so, when that, whatever it may be, upon which the
friendship was originally based, comes to an end, then the
friendship itself is broken off, since it was never pursued
for its own sake, but only with these other ends in view.
That form of friendship which is based upon utility,
would seem principally to have place among the old (for
men of advanced years do not so much pursue what is
pleasant as what is useful), or among those who, although
still in the prime of life, or, it may be, even young, are
nevertheless guided by motives of self-interest. It is
but very seldom that friends of this kind pass their lives
with one another; at times, indeed, they do not even
derive any pleasure each from the society of the other.
Now
1 Read with Cardwell φιλούμενος ἔστιν, and consult the note of Michelet.
ง
1
CHAP. III.]
223
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
Each of them takes pleasure in the company of the other
only in so far as he hopes to be benefited by him; and,
consequently, when no such benefit accrues, no further
need for any such intercourse is felt. It is to this class.
of friendships that we commonly refer covenants for
purposes of mutual hospitality between the inhabitants of
different countries. On the other hand, the friendship of
the young would seem to be based upon pleasure; for the
life of the young is guided by their emotions, and the
chief object of their pursuit is that which is pleasant to
their own and individual selves, and for the time being.
But as age advances our pleasures change. And so the
young are quick to form friendships, and quick to break
them off; for as their pleasures change the old friendship.
falls away, and all such pleasure is quick to change.
Moreover, the young are apt to form sentimental attach-
ments, for such attachments are, as a rule, a matter
of emotion, and have pleasure for their object. And
hence the young form strong attachments, and quickly
break them off, often not knowing their own mind for a
day together. It may be remarked that friends of this
kind always desire to pass their time together, and to
lead their life in common; for otherwise the essential
conditions of their friendship remain unfulfilled.
(151.) | That friendship, however, which obtains between
those who are good, and who resemble one another in that
they are similarly and equally virtuous, is complete and
perfect in itself. For men of this sort will, each of them
equally with the other, feel a mutual and reciprocal wish
that that may be their lot, which is, from the point of view
of their virtue, their highest good; and it must be
remembered that their virtue is an essential element
in their character, and not an indirect result of it. Now,
it is those who wish well to their friend for his own sake
who have the highest claim to the title of friend, inasmuch
224
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACIEAN
as the friendship of such exists and is felt by them for the
sake of their friends alone, and not as an indirect result
of any form of self-seeking. And, consequently, the
friendship of such men will last as long as they themselves.
remain virtuous; and virtue is an abiding thing. In a
friendship of this kind each of the two friends is good,
both in the highest and most abstract sense of being
virtuous, and in the lower and particular sense of being
serviceable to his friend: for good men are not only good
in the abstract sense of the word, but are also of service
to one another. And they are also pleasant after the
same fashion: for the good are not only pleasant in the
highest sense of the word, but are also pleasant in the
particular sense of being pleasant to one another. Indeed,
each man takes pleasure primarily in his own acts; and,
secondarily, in all acts which are of a like nature to his
own; and the acts of good men, if not absolutely
identical, are at any rate most closely similar. A friend-
ship of this kind is, as might be expected, a lasting thing,
inasmuch as in it are united all those requisites which are
essential if men are to be really and truly friends. For
all friendship is ultimately based either upon the good or
else upon pleasure,-which good or pleasure, if not such
really and absolutely, is at least conceived to be such by
him who has entered into the friendship,-and involves a
certain amount of similarity between the friends. And,
in a friendship of this kind, it results directly, and from
the very character of the friends, that into it should enter
all those essentials which have been enumerated above.
For, firstly, all the other forms of friendship are such only
in so far as they resemble this; and, secondly, that which
is absolutely good will also be pleasant absolutely, and in
itself. Now, it is the good and the pleasant that rank the
highest among the objects of affection; and, consequently,
that love and that friendship which is based upon them
CHAP. IV.]
225
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
has the highest and the best claim to the title. It is only
to be expected, however, that such friendships should be
rare; for of such men there are but few. And, moreover,
such a friendship requires à long time, and a considerable
amount of acquaintance. For, as the old aphorism runs,
men cannot know one another until they have eaten the
proverbial amount of salt in company; nor can they,
indeed, each fully admit the other to the position of a
friend, until each is fully assured that the other is a
worthy object of affection, and has consequently placed in
him his fullest confidence. Those who are over quick to
treat one another as friends may indeed wish to be
friends, but are not such upon that account alone, unless
each of them be also a worthy object of affection, and be
assured of the other that he likewise is such. For,
although a desire for friendship can be quickly formed, it
is not so with friendship itself.
This form of friendship is, then, complete and perfect in
itself, not only as regards the time which it requires for its
formation, and the time for which it lasts, but in every
other respect as well; and in it there exists upon all
points, between the two friends, a reciprocity of mutual
good offices, which, if not absolutely identical, are at least
so similar as to be equivalent: and thus it is that friends.
4. ought to be affected the one towards the other. That
(152.) form of friendship which is based upon pleasure has a
certain resemblance to the form just described, in that
those who are good are also mutually pleasant to one
another. And the same holds good of that form of
friendship which is based upon utility; for those who are
good derive mutual advantage from the society of one
another. These two forms of friendship are most disposed
to be permanent when each of the friends derives from
the other a gratification identical with that which he
himself yields to him, as, for example, when each of the
Q
226
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
two yields a pleasure to the other, and derives a pleasure
from him. And this still more holds true when the
gratification which each derives from the other is not
only identical in kind, but also identical in its source; as
when the mutual pleasure which two witty persons take
in one another becomes the basis of a friendship between
them. This last does not hold good in the case of a
sentimental friendship between a man and a youth. In
such a case, each of the two derives, it is true, a pleasure
from the friendship, but each derives that pleasure from a
different source-the lover, from the sight of the loved
object; the youth, from the attentions which the lover.
lavishes upon him. And hence such a friendship often
dies out, after that the beauty of youth has passed away;
for then the lover loses the old delight of his eyes, and the
loved one misses the attentions to which he has been
accustomed. Not but that a friendship of this kind is not
unfrequently carried on into mature life, in those cases
where the two friends are of like disposition, and have
learnt from long acquaintance each to love the other's
character. Those, on the other hand, who make love a
matter of business, and who barter their affections, not
for a counter return of pleasure, but for material advantage,
have less claim to the title of friend, and their friendship
is less abiding. And so, too, those who have become
friends from motives of utility, discontinue their friendship
as soon as their mutual interests change; for that which
each loved all along was, not so much his friend, as his
own and individual interest. Hence we can see that that
form of friendship which is based upon pleasure, or upon
utility, can obtain between two bad men, or between a bad
man and a good, or between a man who is neither good nor
bad and another like himself, or between a man of this
kind and a good man, or, lastly, between a man of this
kind and a bad man: whereas that friendship which is
СПАР. IV.]
227
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
based upon the affection which each of the friends feels
towards the other for his own sake, can evidently only
obtain between the good; for bad men take no pleasure
in one another, save only in so far as they derive from
one another some actual benefit. Moreover, the friendship
of the good is the only friendship which slander cannot
prejudice. For it is a very difficult matter to believe a
man who speaks to the prejudice of him whose character
we have thoroughly tested for many years. Friends of
this kind have in one another the most thorough con-
fidence, nor can they conceive it as being, under any cir-
cumstances whatever, possible that either of them should
wrong the other; and their friendship has, moreover, all
those other characteristics which are essential to constitute
a friendship ideally perfect. But, in other kinds of
friendship, it is perfectly possible for the friends to be set
at variance by evil reports of one another. To resume,
inasmuch as men are in the habit of calling 'friends'
even those whose affection is based upon utility,—as is the
case in a friendship between two States (for it would
seem that States enter into alliances with one another
from motives of interest alone),-no less than those whose.
affection for one another is based upon pleasure, as is the
affection of children;-it would seem to follow that we,
too, ought to speak of such persons as friends, but to do so
(153.) with the reservation that there are more kinds of friend-
ship than one; and that that kind which is primarily and
distinctively to be called friendship, is the friendship
which the good feel towards one another because they are
good; while all other kinds are to be spoken of as friend-
ships only in virtue of their resemblance to this, inasmuch
as those who enter into them are really friends, only in so
far as they have in their character some element of
good, in virtue of which they resemble one another—it
being remembered that to those who love pleasure that
衣
​Q 2
228
[BOOK VIII
THE NICOMACHEAN
which is pleasant is a good. Lastly, it is to be observed,
that the two secondary forms of friendship very seldom
coincide, and that it is but seldom that there exists
between the same two people an affection based upon
mutual interest, conjointly with an affection based upon
mutual pleasure. For things the connection between
which is only incidental, are seldom, as a rule, found to
coexist.
Friendship is, then, as we have said, divided into
these three kinds: and the friendship of the bad will be
based either upon pleasure, or else upon interest; since
such similarity as there is between them will consist in
one or the other of these two points: while the friendship
of the good will be based upon the mutual affection
which they have for one another; their similarity con-
sisting in their virtue. And so the friendship of the
good is absolutely such, and is entered into for its own
sake; while the friendship of the bad is only incidentally
such, for it is an indirect result of self-seeking, and is only
called friendship in virtue of its resemblance to the true.
5. Moreover, exactly as with regard to the various moral
virtues we speak of some men as being good in that they
have a virtuous disposition, and of others in that they
do virtuous acts; so, too, is it in the case of friendship.
For there are some friends whose delight it is to pass
their lives together, and who render one another actual
good services; while there are others again, who may be,
perhaps, asleep, or, it may be, living at a distance
from one another, and who, consequently, do not ac-
tually do these friendly acts, but are none the less dis-
posed to do them upon occasion. For separation does
not destroy the friendship itself, but only prevents the
manifestation of it in friendly acts. But still, where
absence has lasted for long, it would seem that it makes
1
CHAP. V.]
229
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
men forgetful of their friendship; and hence has come
the saying—
Friendship hath oft been lost for lack of speech.
Moreover, it would seem that neither the aged nor the
austere are at all quick to contract friendship; for with
them pleasure has but little place; and no man can
continuously pass his time with one who is absolutely
obnoxious to him, or even with one in whose company
he takes no pleasure, it being, indeed, the primary im-
pulse of our nature to avoid that which gives us pain,
and to aim at that which gives us pleasure. Lastly,
those who are mutually satisfied with one another, but
who do not pass their lives together, would seem to be
kindly disposed towards one another, rather than to be
actual friends. There is, indeed, nothing which is so
essential to friendship as that friends should pass their
lives in the society of one another. For those who are
in distress crave assistance; while those whose lot is blessed
crave the society of others, inasmuch as they, least of all
men, ought to lead a life of isolation. And it is im-
(154.) possible for men to pass their time together, | unless they
not only are pleasant to one another, but also take pleasure
in the same pursuits; and this one can see in the case of
friendships between brothers in arms.
Thus, then, as has been already stated several times,
the only real friendship is that between the good. For it
would seem that that which is in the abstract the object.
of affection, and consequently choiceworthy, is that
which is absolutely and in the abstract either good or
pleasant; and that, to the individual, that is such which
he conceives as being good for or pleasant to himself.
And, from either point of view, the good man must be
to the good man a fit object of affection, and a choice-
worthy friend.
Now affection resembles a transitory
230
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
emotion; friendship a fixed habit, which has become a
part of our character. Indeed, affection may be felt for
a lifeless object; whereas in the reciprocity of friend-
ship purpose is involved and implied, and purpose is
always the manifestation and the result of character. And
hence the true friend will wish his friend good for his
own sake, and will do so not from any sudden emotion,
but because to do so is a part of his own character. And
the love which he bears to his friend will, in reality, be a
love for his own good; for, when another good man
contracts a friendship for him, he thereby becomes to him
a good. And hence each friend not only loves that which
is his own good, but also makes a perfectly equivalent
return in the good which he wishes his friend, and in
the pleasure which he yields him. For, as the old say-
ing runs, equality makes friendship.' And it is of the
friendship of the good that all this is most especially true.
6 Among those who are austere, or aged, friendship shows.
itself less; inasmuch as their disposition is more morose,
and they consequently take less pleasure in the society of
others. And it is frequent intercourse with others that
is not only the best test of friendship, but also its
commonest source. And hence it is that the young
become friends quickly; while the old do not, inasmuch
as men cannot well become friends to those in the society
of whom they take no pleasure; and of those, also, who
are austere a similar rule holds good. But still such
persons may, none the less, be very kindly disposed
towards one another. Indeed, they often wish one
another all possible good, and are prompt to provide one
another with assistance upon occasion of necessity. But
still they can scarcely be called friends, inasmuch as
they neither pass their time together, nor take any
pleasure in the society of one another; and these two
conditions are absolutely essential to friendship. One
CHAP. VI.]
231
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
2
cannot possibly be a friend to many men at once, if the
friendship is to be of the highest and perfect kind, any
more than one can, at one and the same time, be in love
with many different persons. For such a friendship would
seem to be a species of excess, and to involve such an in-
tensity of feeling as can only naturally direct itself
towards a single person. And, besides, it is not an easy
matter for many persons, at one and the same time, to
give very great pleasure to the same individual; nor,
perhaps, for many persons to be, all alike, good men.
True friendship, moreover, requires that we should have
experience of one another, and that we should be upon
terms of close intimacy; and, if our friends are to be
many, this is very difficult. But, where our friendship
(155.) is based upon interest, or upon | pleasure, it is perfectly
possible to please many persons at once; for there are
many in the world who can contract friendships of this
nature, and the services which are entailed require but a
short time for their performance. Of all the secondary
forms of friendship the one which is most like the true, is
that friendship which is based upon pleasure, when in it
each of the friends yields the other an identical gratification,
and they, consequently, take pleasure, if not each in the
other, at any rate in the same pursuits. Of this kind are
friendships between youths; for in them liberality of
nature is more conspicuous than in others. As for the
friendship which is based upon mutual interest, it is
principally contracted by the mercenary.
Those,
moreover, whose lot is blessed stand in need of friends,
not for purposes of interest, but for purposes of pleasure;
for they long to have some one with whom to pass their
life, and can endure for but a short time anything that
gives them pain. Indeed, no man could continuously
endure that which gave him pain,-no, not even if it
were the chief good. And hence it is that those whose
232
[Book VIII
THE NICOMACHEAN
:
lot is blessed, seek for friends to yield them pleasure.
But they ought, perhaps, also to require that the friends
whom they seek for this purpose should, in addition, be
good men, not only in the highest sense of the word, but
also in the particular sense of rendering good services.
For so will they have friends, in whom are combined the
three especial requisites of friendship. Those, on the
other hand, who are in authority, would seem to make
use of various friends, who are distinct from one another
in kind; for some among their intimates are useful to
them, and others yield them pleasure, although it is but
seldom that, in the same man, these two points are
combined. Great men do not look for friends who are to
yield them pleasure, and at the same time to be virtuous;
nor do they look for men who are serviceable as tools,
that they may make use of them to achieve some noble end.
They rather seek for friends who are witty, because they
crave for amusement; and for others who are cunning
and unscrupulous in the execution of any orders that may
be given them, because they need such men as instruments;
and it is but seldom that these two essentials are combined
in the same person. It is true, of course, as has been
already said, that the good man is not only a good friend,
but also a pleasant, and a useful. But such an one will
not become a friend to one who is his superior in worldly
position, unless his own superiority in moral worth be also
admitted; else he has no equivalent to counterbalance his
inferiority in worldly position, and so cannot effect an
equal interchange of reciprocal services. It must be
noticed, however, that friendships of this kind are exceed-
ingly rare.
The friendships which we have just described may be
called friendships of equality; for, in them, either each
friend yields the other the same kind of service, and wishes
him the same form of good, or else the services which they
CHAP. VII.]
233
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
render one another are, like goods in barter, equivalent in
value, although distinct in kind; as where pleasure is
given on the one hand in return for material assistance on
the other. We have also observed that they are less
permanent than is the true friendship, and that the term
'friendship' is not so properly applicable to them. They
have, indeed, both a resemblance and a dissimilarity to
the same thing; and hence they are held, partly to be
friendships, and partly not to be so. They would seem
to be friendships, in so far as they resemble that friend-
ship which is based upon virtue; for the one of them
involves pleasure, and the other utility, both of which are
(156.) to be found in the true friendship. But, on the other
hand, their dissimilarity to the true friendship would make
it seem that they are not really friendships. For, while
the true friendship cannot be disturbed by slanders, or by
accusations of any kind, and is of a lasting nature, they
are not only liable to sudden ruptures, but also differ from
7. the true friendship in many other important points. There
is, also, another class of friendships, comprising what may
be called friendships of inequality; such as is, for instance,
the friendship of a father for his son, or, indeed, of any
older man for a younger; or as is the friendship of a man
for his wife, or of one who is in a position of authority of
any kind for him who is under authority. These
friendships of inequality differ from one another; for the
friendship of a parent for his child is one, and that of a
ruler for his subjects is another; and that of a father for
his son is one, and that of a son for his father is another;
and that of a man for his wife is one, and that of a wife
for her husband is another. For in each one of these
positions is involved a distinct virtue, and, a distinct
function, and, consequently, a distinct claim upon the
affection of others; and hence arise correspondently
various forms of affection, and consequently of friendship.
234
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
In friendships of this nature, neither are the services.
which the one friend renders to the other identical with
those which he receives, nor ought we to expect that they
should be such. When, for instance, children render to
their parents such services as are due to those who begat
them, and parents render to their sons that attention
which is due to a child, then the friendship between
parents and their children will be a lasting friendship and
a good. Lastly, in all friendships of inequality, the affec-
tion between the two friends must be in inverse propor-
tion to the services which are rendered. I mean that the
better of the two, for instance, or the one who renders the
most advantage to the other, or who is in any other way
whatever the superior of his friend, ought to receive a
return of affection correspondently greater than is the
affection which he bestows. For, when the interchange
of affection between two friends is in inverse ratio to the
interchange of services, then one may say that equality is
the result; and it is equality that is one of the chief
characteristics of friendship.
But yet one must, none the less, distinguish between
the equality which obtains in justice and the equality
which obtains in friendship. In justice the primary
consideration is equality according to proportionate value,
to which numerical or quantitative equality is only secon-
dary. But, in friendship, the primary consideration is
quantitative equality, and equality according to propor-
tionate value is but of secondary importance. The truth
of this rule can be clearly seen whenever virtue, or vice,
or wealth, or any other cause, has made any great differ-
ence between the relative position of two friends; for, in
such a case, not only do they no longer continue to be
friends, but they do not even consider any further friend-
ship desirable. In the case of the Gods, the truth of the
rule is self-evident; for there is no good thing whatever
...
CHAP. VIII.] ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
235
with respect to which they are not infinitely superior to
men. And it is clear, also, in the case of kings; for those
who are far their inferiors no more lay claim to friendship
with them, than do those who are of no reputation lay
(157) claim to friendship with men of exceeding excellence,
or of great wisdom. In all such cases it is, of course,
impossible to lay down any abstract rule, as to how great
a difference between two friends is compatible with the
continuance of their friendship. For while, on the one
hand, a man may have much taken from him, and yet
none the less continue to be a friend; yet, on the other
hand, if it should come to pass that his friend be very
widely separated from him-as is God, for instance, from
man - he can then no longer continue to be his friend.
And hence it is that the problem has arisen, whether
friends really wish their friends the greatest possible good,
such as, for example, that they should become Gods; for,
in such a case, they could not any longer continue to be
friends to those who had formed the wish; and, conse-
quently, could no longer continue to be a good to them;
for it is only in that they are friends that friends are a
good to one another. If, then, we were right when we
said that a friend has the good of his friend in view when
he wishes him all possible good, then it will follow that
he cannot but wish him to remain such as he now is; and
that he will, consequently, wish him, not the absolutely
greatest good, but the greatest good of which man is
capable. And yet he will not perhaps wish him every
possible good; for every man desires his own good rather
8. than the good of another. It may, moreover, be remarked,
that the majority of mankind are led by their ambition to
prefer to be loved by others, rather than themselves to
love others; and that it is on this account that most men
¹ We are tempted to read ĥ yàp píλoi.
236
[Book VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
are fond of flatterers, inasmuch as the flatterer is a friend
who is conscious of his own inferiority, or who pretends
to be conscious of it, and, consequently, to love his friend
more than he is loved by him. Now love seems to be
very closely akin to honour, and it is at honour that most
men aim. And yet it would not seem that they choose
honour directly, and for its own sake; but rather in-
directly, and for the sake of its results. The reason, for
instance, why most men rejoice when honour is shown to
them by those who are in authority, is because they are
led thereby to cherish great hopes. They think that they
will obtain from their powerful friends whatever they may
want, and they consequently take pleasure in honour, as
being a token of prosperity. And, similarly, those who
crave to have honour given to them by men of virtue and
understanding, in reality desire to see the opinion which
they have formed of their own merit confirmed; and
hence what really gives them pleasure is the conviction
of their own deserts, to which they are led from their
confidence in the opinion of those who enunciate them.
But to be loved yields men pleasure, not incidentally, and
as a matter of result, but directly and in itself. And
hence it is that to be loved is a better thing than it is to
be honoured; and that, consequently, true friendship is
choiceworthy for its own sake. And it would seem that
it is much more essential to true friendship that we should
love our friend than that we should be loved by him.
This one can see from the affection which mothers delight
to lavish upon their children. For they sometimes will
even intrust their own offspring to others to be brought
up; and, consequently, knowing them to be their own,
still continue to love them, but do not seek for any return
of affection, if such a mutual attachment be impossible,-
it being, apparently, sufficient for them if they see their
(158.) children prosperous. | And so they none the less love
CHAP. VIII.] ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
237
their children, even although the children may, from
ignorance of their own birth, render them none of those
attentions that are a mother's due. And so, since it is
more essential to friendship that we should love our friends
than that we should be loved by them, and since, conse-
quently, those are praised who love their friends, it follows
that the highest virtue of friends, as such, would seem to
lie in the love which they bear to one another; and hence,
too, it follows that, where there exists between friends a
love which is proportioned to their mutual deserts, then
they will be firm friends, and their friendship will be a
lasting one. And in this way, too, it is possible for those
between whom there is the greatest inequality to form a
mutual friendship; for by an unequal return of affection
their present inequality can be equalised. Now, all
affection consists in equality and similarity, and most of
all in that similarity which exists between the virtuous.
For the character of the good man is fixed in itself, and
consequently his relations to his friends remain unaltered;
and he neither desires that his friend should render him
a disgraceful service, nor will he render such to another,
but, if anything, will throw obstacles in its way; for the
good man will neither do wrong himself, nor allow his
friends to do wrong. On the other hand, the wicked
have in them nothing lasting; indeed, not even does their
wickedness for long preserve the same type. And hence
the friendship which they are led to form, from mutual
pleasure in the wickedness of one another, endures but
for a short time. Those, on the other hand, whose friend-
ship is based upon mutual advantage, or upon mutual
pleasure, continue friends for a longer time; for their
friendship lasts at least as long as they continue to yield to
one another either mutual pleasure or mutual benefit.
Lastly, it may be observed, that that form of friendship
which is based upon utility would seem most frequently
233
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
9.
to originate in a mutual consciousness of contrary neces-
sities; as can be seen in the instance of a friendship be-
tween a poor man and a rich, or between an ignorant man
and a learned; for each craves for that of which he is
conscious that he is deficient, and, in order that he may
obtain it, freely offers some other equivalent in exchange.
Along with friendships of this kind one may class the
friendship between lover and loved, and between the
beautiful and the deformed. And hence it is that the
lover often makes himself appear ridiculous, by claiming
a return of affection similar to that which he bestows.
Such a claim might, of course, fairly be advanced, were
the title which the lover has to the affection of the loved
similar to that which the loved has to the affection of the
lover,—the absurdity only consisting in the entire absence
of any such claim. It would, moreover, seem that each
thing craves for its contrary, not directly, and for its own
sake, but rather indirectly, and because of a longing for
that intermediate condition which will result from the
union of the two; for this it is that is really good. For
that which is dry, for example, it is not a good thing that
it should become moist; but, rather, that it should arrive
at the mean state. And of that which is hot, and indeed
of all other things whatever, a similar rule holds good.
We had, however, best perhaps dismiss these purely
physical illustrations, inasmuch as they are somewhat
alien to a strictly ethical investigation.
Now it would seem, as has been already said, that
friendship and justice are concerned with the same ob-
159.) jects, and have the same field. For there is no known
community in which we do not find some form of justice,
and along with it some form of friendship; and it is
noticeable that men apply the term friend' to their
fellow-shipmates, and to their fellow-campaigners, and,
indeed, to all those who are, in common with themselves,
CHAP. LX.]
239
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
joint members of any community. And, as far as their
membership in the community extends, so far also extends
their friendship; for so far is it that justice is possible
between them. And so the proverb, true friends have
all things in common,' was well spoken; for it is com-
munity that is the field of friendship. Now, brothers by
blood and brothers in arms have all things in common;
whereas the members of other communities have, never-
theless, private property of their own, which is in some
cases more, and in others less. For friendships can be
either more or less perfect. There are, moreover, various
forms of justice co-extensive with these various forms of
community and of friendship. For that form of justice.
which is involved in the relation of parents to their
children is one, and that which is involved in the mutual
relations of brothers to one another is another; and the
justice which obtains between brothers in arms is one, and
that which obtains among members of the same body
politic is another; and of all other forms of friendship
whatever the same rule holds good. Similarly, in each
one of these several relations, a distinct form of injustice
is possible; and such injustice is always worse in propor-
tion as the friendship which it violates ought to have been
close. It is, for example, a more grievous wrong to de-
fraud a brother in arms than it is to defraud a fellow-
citizen; and it is worse to refuse assistance to a brother
than it is to refuse assistance to a foreigner; and it is
worse to strike one's father than it is to strike any one else
in the whole world. It would seem, indeed, to follow
from the very nature of justice that, as friendship in-
creases, its claims upon us increase along with it; for both
justice and friendship have the same field, and have also
in that same field an equal range. Now it would seem
that all the communities above-mentioned are but mem-
bers or branches of that one great community which con-
240
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
stitutes the body politic; for in them men band together
to gain some practical good, and to provide for themselves
some one or other of the requisites of material life. And
it would seem that it was with the practical interests of
mankind in view that the body politic was originally
constituted, and has ever since continued to exist; for it
is the welfare of mankind that is the aim of the legislator,
and the current definition of justice is that it is that which
is to the common interest of all men alike. And hence,
too, it is that these various subordinate communities aim
at man's welfare, not as a whole, but from some particular
and special point of view. The object, for instance, of a
ship's crew is that they may have a prosperous voyage,
and thereby either make a large sum of money, or else
achieve some similar result. And so, too, the object of
fellow-campaigners is a prosperous war, no matter whether
it be booty which they desire, or a victory in the field, or
the capture of a besieged city. A similar rule holds.
good of members of the same clan, and of members of the
same local hundred. (For there are some communities
the ultimate object of which would seem to be amuse-
ment; as where, for instance, a club is formed that a
periodical sacrifice may be regularly held, or a dinner
given the object of such a club being the solemnisation
(160.) of a | feast, and the festive gathering which is thereby
involved. And all communities of this nature would
seem to have as good a claim as have any others to be
considered as branches of the one great community of the
body politic, inasmuch as the aim of the body politic is
not so much our welfare for the time being, as the hap-
piness of our life regarded as an organic whole.) And
hence it is that these clan-communities and hundreds
solemnise sacrifices, in connection with which they hold
large gatherings, and thereby not only pay honour to the
Gods, but also provide for themselves holiday and amuse-
CHAP. X.]
241
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
IO.
ment. And it would, indeed, seem that, in old times,
such sacrifices and gatherings together of the people were
regarded as an offering of the first fruits of the year, and
so were held immediately after harvest, at which time
they had more leisure than at any other. To conclude,
then, it would seem that all communities whatsoever are
branches of the body politic, and that consequent upon
them are an equal number of forms of friendship-a
special form of friendship accompanying each form of
community.
Now in the body politic there are three possible forms
of good government, and along with them three perverted
forms, each of which is, as it were, an abnormal condition,
or corruption, of one of the good forms. The good forms
of government are monarchy and aristocracy, and, thirdly,
a form which ought properly to be called a timocracy,
inasmuch as in it the claim to citizenship is determined
by a property qualification, but which, however, most men
are accustomed to call a mixed government or constitu-
tion; and of these three forms monarchy is the best, and
timocracy the worst. Tyranny is the perverted form of
monarchy. In each there is but one ruler, and he is
absolute; but there is, nevertheless, the greatest difference.
between the two, for the object of the tyrant is his own
advantage, while the object of the monarch is the good of
his subjects. For no man can possibly be a monarch,
unless he be absolutely independent, and enjoy an abso-
lute superfluity of all possible goods. For, as there is
nothing of which such a man can possibly stand in need,
it follows that he will not consider his own interests, but
only the interests of his subjects. And, if there be any
monarch who is not such as this, he must be some Nu-
merical-Majority King,' chosen by the irrational award of
the ballot, not freely elected on the rational ground of
his merits. But tyranny is the direct contradictory of
R
•
242
[BOOK VIII
THE NICOMACHEAN
monarchy, inasmuch as the tyrant seeks his own good
alone. And so one has only to consider what is the
nature of tyranny in itself, to see that it is the worst
possible form of government, the worst, indeed, being
here, as elsewhere, that which is the contradictory of the
best. Monarchy, then, degenerates into tyranny; for
tyranny is the disease of monarchy, and the bad king
ultimately passes over into the tyrant. Similarly, an
aristocracy degenerates into an oligarchy, because of the
wickedness of its rulers, who administer the affairs of the
(161.) State in violation of all | justice, making over to them-
selves at least the largest share, if not the whole of the
good things of this life, and contriving that the same
persons shall continuously hold office; inasmuch as their
only object is the acquisition of private wealth. And
thus the government passes into the hands of but a few,
and those, too, bad men, and not, as they ought to be, the
best. Similarly, a timocracy degenerates into a de-
for a
mocracy. The two are indeed very closely allied;
timocracy resembles a democracy in that it is part of its
scheme that the government should be in the hands of a
numerical majority, and that all those who satisfy the
required assessment should enjoy absolutely equal political
privileges. Moreover, democracy is, of all perverted
forms of government, the least bad; indeed, its scheme
differs but little in its essential features from that of a
mixed government, or constitution. Such, then, are the
laws to which political changes most frequently conform ;
for in them is involved the minimum of modification, and,
consequently, the easiest conditions of change. The
analogue and, indeed, almost the antitype of every form
of government, whether good or bad, presents itself to us
in the family. The father and his sons constitute a com-
munity, the leading conception of which is identical with
that of monarchy, inasmuch as the wellbeing of the sons
¿
CHAP. X.]
243
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
is the one care of their father. And hence it is that
Homer calls Zeus our Father,' inasmuch as a monarchy.
aims at being a paternal government. Among the Per-
sians, however, the relation in which the father stands to
his sons is tyrannical, for the Persians treat their sons as
if they were slaves. The relation, also, of the master to
his slaves is tyrannical, in that it has but one object, to wit,
the welfare of the master. And it is clear that the rela-
tion in which the master stands to his slaves is right, and
that the relation in which the Persian father stands to his
sons is wrong. For beings of a different nature require
to be governed in different ways. The relation, again,
in which a man stands to his wife is aristocratical, for the
husband rules in virtue of superior merit, restricting his
authority within its proper limits, and making over to the
wife all that falls within the legitimate sphere of her
duties. Where the husband arrogates to himself the
control of everything alike, the marital relation degene-
rates, and becomes oligarchical; for such supremacy is
no longer based upon superior merit, and is, consequently,
a contravention of justice. Sometimes, on the other hand,
it is the wife who arrogates the rule to herself, on the
ground that she is an heiress. Such complete and entire
supremacy, whether it be of the husband, or whether of the
wife, is no longer founded upon merit, but is based upon.
the undue claims, in the latter case, of superior wealth,
and, in the former case, of superior power; upon which
false claims it is that the constitution of an oligarchy also
depends. Lastly, it would seem that the relation which
obtains between brothers is timocratical, for brothers stand
on a footing of perfect equality one to another, save only
in so far as their respective ages constitute between them
a difference in degree. And, consequently, when this
difference in age becomes very great, then the friendship
R 2
*
244
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
..
1
that subsists between them is no longer that of brothers.
(162.) Democracy finds its closest parallel in a family which
has lost its head; for in such a one all the members are
on a footing of absolute equality; or in which the head
is weak and powerless, and each one, consequently, does
that which is right in his own eyes.
II.
The
Thus, then, in each form of government is involved
an especial form of friendship, the range of which will be
determined by the degree to which, in the constitution of
the given government, justice manifests itself.
friendship between a monarch and his subjects is based
upon the absolute claim which he has upon their grati-
tude. For the monarch is the benefactor of his people,
inasmuch as he devotes his whole talents to their welfare,
and tends them as a shepherd does his sheep,-whence it.
was that Homer called Agamemnon his people's shep-
herd.' Similar to this is the friendship between a father
and his sons, the difference between the two consisting in
the greater claim which the father has as a benefactor.
For the son owes to his father, not only his very exist-
ence, which is, by common consent, the greatest of all
goods, but also his nurture and his education. And it
may be noticed that we not unfrequently refer these
benefits to our ancestors generally. Thus, then, it would
seem to be a law of nature, that the father should have
rule over his sons, and ancestors over their descendants,
and monarchs over their people. And hence, too, it fol-
lows that the forms of friendship involved in these three
relations are friendships of inequality; and this is the
reason why parents are held in honour by their children.
Neither are the claims of justice in these three relations
equally balanced on either side, but rather, as also is the
friendship, proportioned to the benefits received. The
form of friendship which obtains between man and wife
is identical with that which obtains in an aristocracy.
CHAP. XI.]
245
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
The claim upon which it is based is that of merit, and the
rule by which it is governed is that to the better should
be assigned the greater good, and to each that which is
appropriate. Identical with this is the rule of justice
between man and wife. Lastly, the friendship of brothers
resembles that which obtains between brothers in arms;
for brothers are, upon an average, of equal merits and of
equal age, and ought, consequently, in most cases, to
have the same feelings, and the same habits. That friend-
ship which binds together the members of a timocracy is
very similar to this. For the conception of a timocracy
is that all the citizens should enjoy equal political privi-
leges, and should be of equal merit; and that, conse-
quently, each should hold office in his turn, and upon the
same footing as his predecessors and successors. Such
then are the rules of friendship in a timocracy. In the
perverted forms of government friendship has as little
place as has justice, and in the worst of the three it has
the least; for of friendship in a tyranny there is little or
none. Where there is no common bond of interest be-
tween ruler and ruled, there there can be no friendship;
and there, too, justice is equally impossible. The rela-
tion which is involved in such a case is much the same as
is that of the craftsman to his tool, or of the soul to the
body, or of the owner to the slave; for, in each of these
three relations, the owner may be said to confer an abso-
lute benefit upon his property by his use of it. Indeed,
towards any lifeless thing friendship and justice are
equally impossible. And this same rule holds good with
(163.) regard to a man's horse, or his ox, or even his slave,
if he be considered purely and simply as a slave. For
between slave and master there is no one point in com-
mon. For a slave is only superior to a tool in that he
has the function of animal life, and a tool is only inferior
to a slave by the absence of that same function. If, then,
246
[BOOK VIII.
TIIE NICOMACHEAN
:
12.
a slave be considered as such, friendship between him and
his master is impossible; but it becomes possible if he be
considered as a fellow human being. For it is agreed that
justice is possible wherever one man finds another who is
capable of entering into a contract with him, and of
regulating his actions by the same common rule of life.
And, consequently, friendship is possible between a master
and his slave, in so far as the slave is regarded as a human
being. Lastly, in tyrannies the range of friendship and
of justice is exceedingly restricted, while in democracies.
it is widest of all; for, where men are perfectly equal
to one another, there they will have many things in
common.
Thus, then, all friendship is, as has already been said,
based upon some form of community. And hence it is
that one must distinguish the friendship of relations and
the friendship of brothers in arms from all other kinds.
For those forms of friendship which obtain between
fellow citizens, or between members of the same clan, or
members of the same ship's company, and with them all
others of a similar nature, would seem to be more defi-
nitely based upon a community than are these, inasmuch
as they all evidently involve and presuppose some con-
tract with certain definite stipulations; and along with
these one may also class that particular form of friendship
which is based upon relations of mutual hospitality and
protection between members of different States. Now,
of friendship between kinsfolk there are many forms,
which can, however, be all shown to be derived from the
friendship of the father for his children. For parents
love their children, as being a portion of themselves, and
children love their parents in that they themselves are a
something sprung from them. But parents are much
more conscious that their children are sprung from them-
selves, than are the children that they are sprung from
:
CHAP. XII.]
247
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
their parents, and the progenitor feels much more vividly
his kinship with the offspring, than does the offspring its
kinship with its creator. For there is no object whatever
but is very closely akin to that from which it springs:
even a tooth, for example, is very closely akin to its
owner, or a hair, or, indeed, anything whatever. Whereas
the source from which any object has sprung need be but
very little akin to that object, if, indeed, it be akin at all.
And, moreover, length of time makes a very considerable.
difference. For parents love their children from their
birth upward, while children do not begin to love their
parents until they are of a considerable age, and have got
full possession of their wits and faculties. Hence, too,
it is clear why the love of a mother for a child is stronger
than is any other. Thus, then, parents love their children
as they would love themselves; for a man's own offspring
is to him, as it were, a second self, which has, in virtue of
its separation, acquired a distinct and individual exist-
And children love their parents in that from them
they draw their own being. And brothers love one
another in that they draw their being from one and the
same common source; and hence, inasmuch as they stand
in an identical relation to their parents, they, ipso facto
stand in an identical relation to one another; and hence,
(164.) too, have come the sayings | blood is thicker than water,'
'scions of the same root,' and others such. Brothers, in
a word, combine an identity of nature with a distinct and
individual existence. Moreover, community of nurture
and equality of age are strong predisposing causes of
friendship; for, as the proverb says, 'two of an age agree,'
—or, again, ‘fellowship is bred of custom;' and herein
lies the similarity between the friendship of brothers by
blood and the friendship of brothers in arms. The kin-
ship which subsists between cousins, and between all other
kinsfolk, each in their degree, is really to be referred to
ence.
6
248
[BOOK VIII
THE NICOMACHEAN
the kinship between brothers, inasmuch as it depends
upon identity of descent from the same pair of ancestors.
Indeed, relationship of every degree depends for its close-
ness or distance upon the closeness or distance of the first
founder of the family. The friendship of children for
their parents, as also the friendship of man for the Gods,
is, as it were, a friendship for a something of exceeding
goodness, and far higher than themselves. Our parents.
are, indeed, our greatest benefactors, for to them we owe,
first of all, our very existence and our nurture, and, sub-
sequently, our education. Such a friendship involves more
genuine pleasure, and more actual benefit, than does a
friendship between strangers, inasmuch as there exists
between the friends a much greater community of life.
And hence, too, the friendship of brothers by blood in-
volves in it all the points that are essential to the friend-
ship of brothers in arms, this is true, as a general rule,
in virtue of the similarity between brothers, but is all the
more true if they be good men and upright,-for brothers.
by blood are more closely akin to one another than are
brothers in arms, and have loved one another from their
birth upwards; and there is always a greater community
of character between those who are born of the same
parents, and who have been reared together, and who
have received the same education; and, lastly, the length
of their intercourse gives to brothers the most frequent and
surest test of their mutual friendship. In all other forms
of friendship between kinsfolk the manifestations of affec-
tion will be found to vary according to the degree of re-
lationship. Between husband and wife friendship would
seem to subsist almost as a law of nature. For man is,
of his own nature, more disposed to seek a helpmate, and
so to form a pair, than to seek many associates, and so
form a State; inasmuch as, in the first place, the family
precedes the State, and is more necessary than it; and, in
CHAP. XIII.]
249
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
far only.
the second place, the desire to procreate their kind is
more widely diffused amongst all living things than is the
desire for civil society. And hence, in all other animals,
the association between the male and female extends thus
Whereas man takes to himself a woman to
dwell with him, not only that he may procreate his kind,
but also that all the essential requisites of life may be
fulfilled. For, from the very first, the functions of the
one distinguish themselves from those of the other; so
that the employment of the man is one, and the employ-
ment of the wife is another; and hence they are of mutual
aid and assistance one to another, each adding to the com-
mon stock that which belongs to each. And hence, too,
it is that this form of friendship seems to involve both
mutual benefit and advantage, and mutual pleasure. Nay,
more, it is possible for the friendship between husband and
wife to be ultimately based upon virtue, if only they both
be good and upright. For the husband has a virtue of
one kind, and the wife has a virtue of another, and they
(165.) can consequently feel a mutual | pleasure each in the
13.
virtue of the other. Children, moreover, seem to be a
great bond of union; and this is the reason why those
who are childless are more quickly estranged from one
another. For children are to both their parents a com-
mon good, and all community of good constitutes a bond
of union. Lastly, when we ask by what rule of life a man
ought to be guided in his intercourse with his wife, or,
more generally, a friend of any kind whatever in his
intercourse with his friend, we are only asking what is in
each case just. For justice between a man and his friend
is one, and justice between a man and a stranger is another;
and justice is one between a man and his brother in arms,
and another between a man and his fellow-pupil.
There are, then, as was said at first, three forms of
friendship, each of which may assume the shape either of
250
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
a friendship of equality or of a friendship of inequality.
For a good man can become a friend to one who is
his equal in virtue, or can become a friend to his
inferior. And of those whose friendship is based upon
pleasure, the same rule holds good; as also it does of those
whose friendship is based upon utility; inasmuch as the
assistance which the one gives to the other can be either
equal to that which he receives, or greater than it.
And
hence we can derive the rule that those whose friendship
is one of equality ought each to render to the other an
equal return of affection, and with it of all other friendly
offices and that, in the case of those whose friendship
is one of inequality, the inferior of the two friends ought
so to regulate the return of affection which he makes,
that its amount shall be proportionate to the superior
claim which his friend has upon his gratitude. It is in
that form of friendship which is based upon utility that, as
might indeed be expected, disputes and counter-accusa-
tions, if not exclusively, at any rate most frequently,
arise. For, where a friendship is based upon virtue,
there the sole desire of the friends is to do good to one
another; inasmuch as it is in the doing of good that true
virtue, and with it true friendship, shows itself. Where
friends are engaged in a rivalry of this nature, there dis-
pute and contention have no place. For no man can feel
anger against one who loves him, and who confers benefits.
upon him; but, if he have any proper feeling, will do his
best to repay him by similar kindnesses. And he, on the
other hand, who has the greater claim upon the affection
of the other, inasmuch as he meets with that which he
desires, will be the last to dispute the gratitude of his
friend. Indeed, the object of each is not his own private
advantage, but only that which is really and truly good.
Neither do difficulties ever arise in that form of friend-
ship which is based upon pleasure; for in it each of the
CHAP. XIII.]
251
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
two obtains exactly that which he desires, inasmuch as
what yields them pleasure is that each should pass his life
in the society of the other. And, indeed, a man would
only appear ridiculous were he to object that the society
of his friend no longer yielded him pleasure. For he
surely need not pass his time in his company unless he so
choose. But, in that form of friendship which is based
upon mutual interest, disputes are very apt to arise. For,
inasmuch as the only object of a man in such a friend-
ship is to put his friend to the best possible use, it follows
that each of the two will always be claiming more than
he actually receives, and will always think that he gets
less than is his due; and, consequently, each will upbraid
the other, on the ground that the claims which he ad-
vances are but fair and reasonable, and that yet they
remain unsatisfied. And hence, too, it follows that, in a
friendship of this nature, it is impossible to confer benefits
(166.) sufficiently great to satisfy the claims of the | recipient.
Now it would seem that, exactly as justice is of two kinds
-the unwritten law, which is of nature, and the written
law, which is of man; so, too, of that friendship which
is based upon utility there are two forms, the friendship
of confidence, and the friendship of covenant. Thus,
then, disputes most commonly arise when men have con-
tracted a relation, on the understanding that their friend-
ship is to be of the first kind, and have then terminated
it, as if their friendship were of the second. As for the
friendship of covenant, it is always contracted upon cer-
tain definite stipulations. There is one form of it which
is but little better than a huckster's friendship, and in
which none but cash payments are recognised; and there
is another form in which, although more liberal credit is
allowed, yet the amount due for value received is none
the less matter of definite agreement. In this latter case,
the fact of the debt is evident, and the plea of not in-
252
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
debted is inadmissible, it being in the postponement of
payment that the element of friendship shows itself. And
hence it is that, in some States, the law ignores the claims.
of creditors, and rules that those who have entered into a
contract upon terms of good faith must abide by the con-
sequences of their own act. In a friendship of confi-
dence, on the other hand, no express stipulations are in-
volved; but a man makes a gift, or does some similar
act of kindness, on the assumption that it is a friend to-
wards whom he is thus acting. And hence he who has
acted thus, holds that he has a moral claim to receive a
return of kindness, if not greater than that which he has
conferred, yet at least equal to it, on the plea that the
benefit which he conferred was not intended as a gift, but
rather as a loan made without acknowledgment. And so,
if he find that he has contracted the relation in question
in a spirit of confidence, and that it is to be concluded in
a spirit of strict covenant, he will dispute the conduct of
his friend. The reason of this is that most men, if not
all, combine an aspiration to seek what is noble with a
practical purpose to further their own interests; and
while, on the one hand, it is noble to do good without any
expectation of a return, it is, on the other hand, to our
own interest to receive benefits from others. But still,
where it is in a man's power, he ought at once to make a
return to the full value of any favour which he may have
received; and ought, moreover, to do so freely, and with-
out waiting until he is reminded of the claims upon him.
For it is a mistake to run the risk of treating as a true
friend one to whom we are under an obligation, when he
may not wish to be considered as such. And so the best
rule is to act as if we had been mistaken in the commence-
ment, and had received a kindness from one at whose hands
it ought not to have been accepted. For,-we ought to
say, he who conferred the benefit in question was not a
CHAP. XIII.]
253
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
true friend, nor did he thus act simply for the sake of
doing good, and without any hope of reward. And so we
ought to conclude the relation in exactly the same way as
we should have concluded it had the receipt of the benefit
involved definite stipulations as to its repayment. It is
clear that he who knowingly receives a benefit conferred
in expectation of a return would covenant to make re-
payment as soon as it should be in his power; and it is
equally clear that, were it absolutely out of his power
ever to make such a return, he who conferred the benefit
would never have consented to confer it. And from this
it follows that, where a man is able, he must repay to the
full any favour which he may have received. And so
one ought, in the beginning, to inquire carefully from
whom it is that one is receiving a benefit, and what con-
ditions are implied, in order that one may decide whether
the benefit is to be accepted upon such conditions, or not.
A further doubt arises whether the measure by which the
return of a kindness is to be made is the actual benefit
which has been thereby conferred upon the recipient, or
rather the good intention of the benefactor. For those
who have received a kindness are apt to depreciate it, and to
say that what they have received from their benefactor was
to him but a little matter, and might with ease have been
procured from some one else. And he, on the other hand,
who confers the kindness, asserts that what he gave was
(167.) his | best, and that it could not have been procured else-
where, and that it was given under circumstances of great
danger, or in some similar crisis. The true solution would
seem to be that, where the friendship is based upon utility,
the measure to be adopted in the return of a kindness is
the amount of the benefit which was actually conferred
thereby upon the recipient. For it is in his request that
the whole matter originates, and the donor only aids him
on the understanding that he himself is to receive the full
254
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
14.
value of the benefit conferred. The amount, then, of the
assistance which has been rendered is exactly equivalent
to the actual benefit which has been thereby conferred
upon the recipient; and he ought, therefore, to return to
the donor as much as he has gained from him; or, per-
haps, even more; for, the ampler the return, the more noble
is the act. But, where friendship is based upon the virtue
of the friends, there there are no disputes, and the mea-
sure to be adopted in the return of a kindness would seem
to be the good intention of him by whom it was con-
ferred; for it is in a man's intentions that his virtue, and,
indeed, his character as a whole, most distinctively shows
itself.
C
In friendships of inequality disputes also arise. For
each of the two lays claim to more than he actually re-
ceives, and the result of this is that the friendship is broken
off. For he whose virtue is superior to that of his friend
holds that the larger share is his by right, because to him
that hath shall be given.' And so, too, thinks he who
confers upon his friend greater benefits than he receives
from him. For, as the proverb goes, he who stands idle
must not be paid in full;' and, when the return which is
made is not in proportion to the service which has been
rendered, then friendship becomes not so much a friend-
ship as a tax. Friendship, indeed, from this point of view,
ought to resemble a pecuniary partnership, in which the
largest dividend is due to him who has contributed the
largest share to the common stock. He, on the other
hand, who is inferior to his friend, either in position or in
virtue, takes up the exactly opposite view, and asserts
that it is the part of a good friend to supply his friend's
wants; else what gain were it to be the friend of a good
man, or of a man in authority, if one were to derive no
advantage from such a friendship? Now it would seem
that the claims which are advanced on each side are really
CHAP. XIV.]
255
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
just, and that the result of the friendship ought to be that
to each of the two friends should be allotted the larger
share indeed, but still not the larger share of the same
thing. For he who is superior in position ought to receive
the larger share of honour, and he who stands in need of
assistance ought to receive the larger share of material
benefit. For honour is the legitimate reward of virtue
and of offices of kindness, and the assistance which is
given to those who are in need tends naturally to take
the shape of material benefit. And in governments, also,
this same rule clearly holds good; for he who contributes
nothing to the common stock is not held in
not held in any honour.
That which is the property of the public is given to him
who promotes the public welfare, and honour is the pro-
perty of the public. And it is, consequently, not allowed
that a man should, at one and the same time, receive both
(168.) pay from the public and also honour. For men will not
submit to a position which is one of inferiority upon every
point. And so, to him who spends his substance upon
the State, honour is given, and, to him who seeks a salary
for his services, money; for, where the return that is
made bears a due proportion to the services which have
been rendered, there, as has been said before, strict
equality is produced, and friendship is kept alive. And
in the intercourse of those whose friendship is one of in-
equality a similar rule must be observed; and he who
has received pecuniary assistance from his friend, or who
is inferior to him in merit, must yield his friend an equi-
valent return of honour, making return according to his
ability. For the return which is required of us in friend-
ship is that which is in our power, rather than that which
is due according to the strict letter of justice. Indeed,
this latter is not in all cases possible; as, for example,
in the case of the due return of honour to be made to
the Gods, or to our parents.
For no one could ever
256
[BOOK VIII.
THE NICOMACHEAN
render them all that honour which is their just due; and,
hence, he is held to do his duty towards them who reve-
rences them to the best of his ability. Hence, too, it would
seem that, while a son may not renounce his father, a
father may renounce his son. The reason of this is, that
he who is in debt is always under obligation to make
payment. Now nothing that a son can do can ever coun-
terbalance that which his father has done for him, and so
a son must always remain in his father's debt. Now, he
to whom a debt is due may, if he please, remit it; and,
consequently, a father may abnegate his claim upon his
son. But yet it would seem that no father would ever
sever his connection with his son, unless provoked thereto
by a wickedness in him beyond all bounds. For, even if
we put out of question the natural affection which a parent
has for his child, yet it is hardly in human nature to reject
that assistance which a son can render. But, if the son
be evil, he will either evade that assistance which it is his
duty to render to his father, or will show but scant zeal
in the performance of it. For most men desire to have
benefits conferred upon themselves, but avoid conferring
benefits upon others, as being a profitless task. Thus far,
then, we may regard these questions as settled.
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
257
IX.
I. Now, in all those friendships in which the two friends
have dissimilar objects in view, it is by observation of
the rule of exchange according to proportionate values
that, as has been said before, real equality is produced,
and friendship is kept alive. This we can see in that
great community which constitutes the body politic, and
in which the cobbler gets, in return for his shoes, an
equivalent of proportionate value, as also does the weaver
in return for his own wares, and similarly all other crafts-
men. Now, in transactions of this nature a currency
has been provided as the one common measure of all
(169.) values, to which, as the standard of value, all things
whatever are referred, and by which all things are
measured. But, in a friendship which is based upon
sentimental affection, the lover at times upbraids his
friend, and complains that he loves him with a love
exceedingly great, and yet receives no love in return;
forgetting that he may, very possibly, have nothing in
himself to inspire such love. And at times, again, the
lover is upbraided by the object of his affection, and is
told that in times past he promised everything, and that
he now gives nothing. Disputes of this nature occur
when the affection of the lover for his friend is based
upon the pleasure which he derives from him, and the
affection which he receives in return is based upon the
material advantages which the friendship affords; and
when each, or either of the two, misses that which he
desires. It was upon these objects that the friendship
S
258
[BOOK IX.
TIE NICOMACHEAN
was based; and hence, when the friends no longer get
that which is the real object of their affection, then the
friendship is broken off. It was not one another that they
loved; but, rather, each loved a something which the
other had to offer him, and which, whatever it might be,
being transitory, the friendship also was such. But that
friendship which is founded upon the mutual esteem
of the friends each for the character of the other, is
entered into for its own sake, and independently of any
results; and is, consequently, as has been said before, a
permanent thing. Indeed, disputes never arise, unless
the practical result of the friendship is other than the
friends had expected and wished. For one might as well
get nothing as not get that which one actually wants.
This may be illustrated by the story of him who promised
the harper that the better he sang the more he should
receive; but who when on the morrow performance
of the promise was demanded, said that he had paid for
the pleasure of music with the pleasure of hope. This
would have been well enough, had it been what each
of the two desired; but, when the one desires amusement,
and the other payment, and the one gets what he wants,
while the other does not, then the transaction is no longer
fairly conducted. For a man sets his mind upon that
which he happens to want, and for the sake of that gives his
friend whatever it may be that he gives him. A further
question arises, as to whether it is he who is the first to
give, who ought to fix the value of the return that is to be
made, or rather he who is the first to receive. It would
seem that the latter is the true solution; for he who is the
first to give, puts the matter thereby into the hands of the
other. It is upon this rule, it is said, that Protagoras used
to act. For, whenever he taught a subject—no matter
what he used to bid his pupil to fix the value of the
knowledge which he had acquired, and would be content to
СПАР. І.]
259
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
receive so much, and no more. Others, again, there are
who are, in such cases, content to follow the old rule-
the labourer is worthy of his hire.' Those, however,
who exact payment in advance, and who then can per-
form none of their promises, simply because they have
held out extravagant expectations, these deserve the
disputes in which they find themselves involved, inasmuch
as they do not fulfil the promises which they originally
made. Sophists, however, are perhaps obliged to act
(170.) thus, inasmuch as, for what they know, no one would
be willing to make any payment. And, consequently,
they may fairly be said to bring upon themselves the
disputes in which they become involved, inasmuch as they
do not discharge those duties the pay for which they
have taken in advance. Where, on the other hand,
there have been no definite stipulations as to the terms
upon which a service is to be rendered, then those who, for
the sake of the affection which they bear their friends, are
the first to give, are, as has been said before, exempt from
all possible dispute. And such is that friendship which is
based upon virtue. As for the return which ought to be
made to such friends, the measure by which it is to be
estimated is the good intention of their gift. For so he
who makes the return acts as a true friend, and as a good
And it would seem that this same rule ought to be
followed by those whose relation is that between the
teacher of philosophy and his pupil. For wisdom cannot
be bought for gold, nor can it be measured at any price.
And hence, perhaps, the best which we have to offer
must be held to be enough; as also is the rule of grati-
tude with reference to the Gods, and to our parents.
Where, however, we are not concerned with a free gift,
but rather with a gift made upon certain definite stipu-
lations, then the best rule would seem to be that that
return should be made, upon which both agree as fair and
man.
$ 2
260
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
2.
equitable; and, where this cannot be done, it would seem
to be only just that he who was the first to receive should
fix the value of the return which is to be made,
even were it not the case that no other mode of settle-
ment is possible. If this rule be followed, then will
he who was the first to give, receive from the other,
as the fair recompense of his services, either that which
was, to that other, the value of the benefit which he
received, or else, as the case may be, the price which
he would have put upon the pleasure. Such is clearly
the general practice of trade; and in some countries,
indeed, there is a law to the effect that no suit can be
instituted with reference to any voluntary transaction,
on the ground that, where a man has placed confidence
in another, the transaction ought to be concluded in the
same spirit as that in which it was commenced. For the
law holds that, where a man has put a matter into the
hands of another, it is then only just that he should abide
by the decision of him in whom he has thus voluntarily
placed confidence. And it is, indeed, to be noticed that.
the majority of men have one price for that which they
possess, and another for that which they wish to get.
For every one puts a high value upon that which is his
own, and upon that which he has to give to others. The
value, however, of the return which is to be made is, in
each case, fixed by the judgment of the receiver. Not
but that the receiver should be guided in his estimate,
not so much by the value to him of the thing in question,
now that he actually possesses it, as by the value which
he was disposed to set upon it before it became his own.
There are, moreover, other questions to be solved, such
as are, for example, the following. Ought a man to
place his father first in everything, and to obey him upon
every point; or ought he rather, when he is sick, to take
the advice of his physician; and to record his vote for
the office of commander-in-chief in favour of the most
CHAP. II.]
261
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
7
:
experienced officer? And, to take a similar case, ought
we to render our services to our friend rather than to a
(171.) good man; and ought we to return a kindness to our |
benefactor, rather than to make a gift to our brother in
arms: it being, of course, assumed in each case that only
one of the two alternatives is possible? May we not say
that it is no easy matter to lay down any one abstract rule,
which shall apply, with equal accuracy, to all such cases
alike, inasmuch as they differ from one another in every
variety of circumstance;-some of them being important,
and others trifling; some, cases where there is the very
strongest moral claim, others, cases of absolute necessity?
Thus much, at any rate, is self-evident, that one must
not give everything that one has to the same person.
And from this it follows, that one ought, as a general
rule, rather to return a benefit which one has actually
received, than to confer a gratuitous favour upon a
brother in arms; exactly as one ought rather to repay
a loan to a creditor, than to spend the same sum upon a
present to a friend. And yet it would seem as if even this
rule did not always hold good. Ought, for example, a man
who has been ransomed from banditti to pay the ransom
of him by whom his own ransom was formerly paid—and
that, too, quite independently of the question who or
what he may be; or to restore to him the sum which he
then paid-supposing him not to be himself in the hands
of banditti, but to simply demand repayment of the sum
then advanced: or ought he rather to ransom his father
than to do either of these things? The answer is clear,
inasmuch as it is a man's duty to pay his father's ransom
rather even than his own. As then has been said, it is a
paramount rule that a debt should be repaid. But, if in
any given case it be distinctly a more noble thing to make a
gift, or if the necessity for so doing be more urgent, then we
must allow ourselves to deviate from the general rule. At
times, indeed, to repay a previous kindness is not even
262
[Book IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
:
just; as when, for example, a man has had the foresight
to do a good turn to another upon whose integrity he
knows that he may depend, and that other has in return
to do some good office to a man whom he believes to be a
rogue. Nor does it follow that it is always our duty to
lend money to those who formerly lent money to us. A
man may, for example, have formerly made a loan to
another in whose integrity he had confidence, and from
whom he consequently expected repayment; but may
himself be such a rogue that the other could have no
expectation of repayment were he to advance him money
in return. Suppose that the case is really such as we
have described, then the claims of the two parties cannot.
be compared. Or suppose that the case be not really one
of this kind, but that a man believe it to be such;—he
would, even then, do nothing strange in refusing the loan.
Indeed, as has been often said before, all general state-
ments concerning the feelings and the actions of men are
of necessity subject to the same variation as is the object
matter with which they are concerned. It is, however,
a self-evident rule that one must not make one and the
same return to all those alike who have a claim upon us.
And it is also clear that to give to one's father everything
which one has to offer, is as uncalled for a thing as it
is to sacrifice to Zeus every kind of beast. Now, the
return which suits our parents is one, and that which
suits our brothers is another; and that which suits our
brothers in arms is one, and that which suits our bene-
factors is another. And one ought, consequently, to ren-
der to each man that especial return which is appropriate
to him, and suitable to his position. And to these rules
the practice of the world would seem to conform. For,
when men give a wedding feast, they invite their kinsfolk,
to whom equally with themselves belongs the family as a
whole, and, consequently, the due performance of all those
CHAP. II.]
263
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
acts which are especially involved in its existence.
And
it is for the same reason that men hold it to be the duty
of kinsfolk, rather than of others, to make a point of
(172.) attending at | a funeral. And it would seem that it is a
man's duty to render material assistance to his parents
before any one else, looking upon it as a debt which he
owes them, and regarding it as more noble to render such
assistance to the authors of his existence than to supply
his own necessities. And one ought also to render
honour to one's parents, exactly as one renders honour to
the Gods, but yet not every kind of honour. For the
honour which a man ought to pay to his father is one,
and the honour which he ought to pay to his mother is
another. Nor ought a man to render to his father that
honour which he renders to a philosopher, or to a general,
but rather that especial honour which is a father's due;
exactly as he ought also to render to his mother that
honour which befits her. And, similarly, a man ought
to render to every one who is older than himself that
honour which is appropriate to his age, rising up in his
presence, and placing him in the highest seat, and showing
him similar acts of courtesy. And towards his brothers.
in arms, and his brothers by blood, he ought to bear
himself with openness of speech, and to place all that he
possesses at their disposal. And, as regards his kinsfolk,
and the members of his clan, and his fellow-citizens, and
indeed all those into contact with whom he is thrown,
he ought always to endeavour to render to each man that
which is not only due to him, but also appropriate to his
position, and to carefully estimate and distinguish between
the claims which each respectively may have on the ground
of relationship, or of merit, or of intimacy. To distinguish
between the several claims of those who all stand in the same
kind of relation to ourselves is, of course, an easy matter.
But, to distinguish between the claims of those, the several
264
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
1
i
3.
relations of whom to ourselves are entirely distinct, and
consequently incapable of comparison, is a more difficult.
task. We ought not, however, on that account, to evade
the difficulty, but rather to do the best that is in our
power to draw the distinctions in question with all possible
accuracy.
Another question to be solved is, whether a man ought,
or whether he ought not, to break off his friendship with
those whose character is no longer such as it was origi-
nally. But, may not one answer that, when the friendship
was originally based upon utility, or upon pleasure, and
the friends no longer fulfil the requisite conditions, then
he who breaks off the friendship does nothing strange?
For the motive of the friendship was a definite some-
thing, the discontinuance of which is a reasonable ground.
for the cessation of affection. Not but that a man has
fair ground for complaint, when another, whose feelings
towards himself were grounded simply upon interest, or,
it may be, upon pleasure, has pretended to love him for
his own sake, and from admiration for his character.
For, as indeed we said originally, one of the most frequent
causes of disputes between friends is a mutual miscon-
ception as to the true nature of their friendship. When,
then, a man has been deceived as to the nature of the
friendship which another feels for him, and supposes that
friendship to be based upon a proper esteem, although his
friend has done nothing to give him a reasonable ground
for such a misconception, he then has no one to blame
but himself. But, when it is the simulation of his
pretended friend that has led to the misconception, he
then has a just cause for complaint, as much as, if not
even more than, he would have had if an attempt had
been made to pass counterfeit coin upon him, inasmuch
as the wrong which has been done him affects higher and
(173.) nobler interests. But suppose that a man | has formed a
CHAP. III.]
265
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
friendship for another on the ground of his merits, and
that then his friend becomes depraved, and makes no
attempt to conceal the alteration in his character. Ought
he, in such a case, any longer to feel affection for him?
May not one answer, that it is simply impossible for him
to do so, inasmuch as the grounds of affection are not
indiscriminate—true affection being always based upon a
proper esteem? Indeed, not only is it impossible to feel
an affection for a bad man, but one ought not even
to try to do so. For a man ought neither to make evil
his good, nor to liken himself to that which is evil. And,
as we have said before, true friendship can only be
felt by like for like. Ought he then, under such circum-
stances, to break off the friendship immediately? Surely
he ought not to do so in all cases alike, but only when
his friend has become incurably depraved? Where any
hope of amendment still remains, there he ought to do his
best to restore his friend to his right mind; and that, too,
with even more zeal than that with which he would strive
to repair his fortunes-inasmuch as the task is a more
noble one, and falls more distinctly within the province
of friendship. But, where hope no longer is, then, if he
break off the friendship, he does nothing strange. It was
not this man that he once loved, but another; and, since he
cannot bring him back to his former self, he does well to
hold himself aloof. Or, suppose, again, that the one friend
remains such as he always was, but that the other becomes
so far better a man that the merits of the two can no
longer be compared-ought the latter, in such a case,
still to treat the former as his friend, or does it become
impossible for him to do so? The true answer will be
most evident, if we assume that the difference between
the friends has come to be very great-as is often the
case in friendships that have been contracted in childhood.
Suppose, for instance, that the one of the two continues
266
[Book IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
4.
to have only a child's intelligence, while the other so
grows in wisdom, and in stature, as to become a perfect
man; how can they, in such a case, any longer continue
friends, when they no longer take pleasure in the same
pursuits, and no longer mutually rejoice and grieve each
with the other? In such a case they can no longer feel
sympathy for one another. And without sympathy it is
no longer possible for them to be friends, inasmuch as it
is no longer possible for them to pass their lives together.
Concerning all this we have already spoken. · Ought
then a man, in cases of this sort, to behave to his former
friend exactly as he would behave to him had they never
been friends in times past? Or ought he not rather to
bear old acquaintance in mind, and, for the same reason as
that for which men hold it right to do a kindness to a
friend rather than to a stranger, to let bygone friendship.
be his excuse for certain small kindnesses to those whom
he once loved; unless, indeed, the rupture has been due
to a wickedness on their part more than ordinary?
Now, the acts by which we manifest our affection for
our friends, and by which the nature of our friendship is
determined, would seem to grow out of the acts by which
we manifest our feelings towards ourselves. For the
ordinary conception of a friend is that he should be one
who wishes his friend that which is good, or that which
he holds to be such, for his friend's own sake, and who,
as far as he can, carries his wishes into effect; or else
that he should be one whose wish it is that his friend
should, for his own sake alone, exist and live. It is thus
(174.) that mothers feel towards their | children, and true friends,
who happen to have fallen out, towards one another.
Another conception of friendship is, that friends are those
who pass their time together, and who have one common
purpose; or that they are those who have each the same
sorrows and the same joys with one another; and this
CHAP. IV.]
267
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
?
form of sympathy is most especially noticeable in mothers.
Such, then, are the ordinarily current definitions of friend-
ship. Now, the good man has each and all of these
feelings towards himself. Other men feel thus towards.
themselves, only in so far as they are convinced of their
own goodness. For it would seem, indeed, that, as has
been said before, the measure, or standard of reference
in each case is the highest attainable excellence, or, in
other words, the judgment of the good man, to whom such
excellence belongs. Now the good man feels thus, inas-
much as he is at unity with himself, and has in his whole
soul but one desire. And hence he wishes himself that
which is good, or, in other words, that which he conceives.
to be such, and does his best to carry his wishes into
into effect,—for the good man will always do his best to
realise that which is good. And all this he does for his
own sake; inasmuch as he does it for the sake of his
reason; and it is in a man's reason that his existence
and personality would seem to be centred. And hence.
he wishes for himself life and safe keeping, and most
especially wishes so for that part of himself in which his
reason lies: for, to the good and perfect man, existence is
of itself a good thing. Thus, then, it is to be observed
that each man wishes for himself that which is good from
his own point of view. When he has become other than
he once was, then no man wishes his new self to have
every possibly conceivable kind of good thing,-inasmuch
as good cannot be conceived as such, unless it be with
reference to that particular being for which it is good. The
supreme good, for instance, is perpetually enjoyed by God;
but this is only because his essence ever remains divine,—
let Divinity consist in what it may. And it must also be
remembered, that a man's personality is chiefly, if not
entirely, centred in his reason.
will wish to hold continuous
Thus, then, the good man
communion with himself,
268
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
inasmuch as such communion cannot but be pleasant to
him. For to him the memories of the past are happy,
and the hopes of the future are bright; and memories and
hopes of this kind are full of pleasure. He has, moreover,
abundant store of thoughts on which to feast his reason;
and it is with his own pains, and with his own pleasures,
that he most of all feels sympathy. For it is one and the
same thing that always gives him pain, and similarly one
and the same thing that always gives him pleasure; anl
not first one thing and then another; for in him, as the
saying is, there is no variableness. Now, in that the
good man has each and all of these feelings towards him-
self, and in that he feels towards his friend as he feels
towards himself (for a friend is a second self), it follows
that true friendship would seem to consist in some one or
other of these feelings, and that those alone would seem
to be truly friends who entertain these feelings towards
one another. As to whether a man can feel a friendship
for himself, or whether he can not, it is a question that
may for the present be dismissed. Provisionally we may
answer that it would seem to be possible, in so far as one
or more of the above-mentioned conditions are satisfied
(175.) and also because, when friendship reaches its extreme
limit, it resembles that affection which a man feels for
himself. And it would seem that, in the case of most
men, these conditions are fulfilled, even although they
may be bad men, and wicked. It would appear, however,
that they are fulfilled only in so far as they are satisfied
with themselves, and believe themselves to be good. For,
when a man is absolutely bad, and when his every act
is a sin, then he neither has, nor even seems to have,
any such feelings towards himself. One might, indeed,
almost say that he cannot possibly have them, if he be
bad at all. For the bad are at variance with themselves,
so that their desires lead them one way and their better
CHAP. IV.]
269
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
wishes another, as we can see in the case of the incon-
tinent. For, at times, instead of that which they believe
to be good, they choose that which is pleasant, although
they know it to be bad; and at times, again, cowardice and
sloth persuade them to keep aloof even from that which
they acknowledge to be the best possible course; and at
times, again, when their wickedness has led them into
many and great sins, life becomes to them a hateful and
a sore burden, and they do away with themselves from
off the face of the earth. Thus, then, the wicked seek for
companions with whom to pass their days, and shun
companionship with themselves; for their memories are
many and grievous, and, where hope should be, there fear
dwells. And all this they feel when they are alone, but
forget when they are with others. And, since they have
in them nothing that calls for love, they can feel no
affection towards themselves. And, hence, not even in
their own joys and sorrows can they have any sympathy
with themselves. For their soul is like a city which is at
variance with itself, and the one part of it, by reason of
their sins, is grieved that it has to abstain from certain
things, while the other part is pleased thereat; and the
one drags them this way, and the other drags them that,
like beasts when they rend a carcass. Since, then, it is
impossible that a man should at the same time feel both
pain and pleasure in the same thing, but after a little
while a man is pained to think that he should have felt
such a pleasure, and believes that, could the past be
recalled, he would not again wish to take pleasure in
such things, whence it is that the wicked are ever full
of repentance,—then from all this it clearly follows that
the bad man cannot feel towards himself as towards a
friend, since he has nothing in him worthy of affection.
And, inasmuch as to be in such a state as this is exceed-
ingly wretched, we must fly from vice with all our
270
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
strength, and must strive to our utmost to be good; for
so shall we feel towards ourselves as towards a friend, and
shall become friends to other men.
5. Kindly feeling bears a certain resemblance to friendship,
(176.) with which, however, it is not on that account identical. |
For kindly feeling is possible towards those with whom
we are unacquainted, nor is it necessary that it should be
known to its object; but of friendship this is not true.
Upon this, indeed, we have remarked before. Neither is
kindly feeling to be identified with affection, inasmuch as
it is devoid of that passionate intensity of emotion which
is the accompaniment of affection. Affection, moreover,
implies length of acquaintance, whereas kindly feeling
can arise in a moment. This we can see in the case of
competitors at the public games, where a spectator may
conceive a kindly feeling towards a particular candidate,
and may sympathise with him in his wish for victory, and
yet need not on that account feel in any way disposed to
render him actual aid in his efforts. For, as we have said
before, kindly feeling can arise in a moment, and involves
but a superficial liking. It would seem, indeed, as if
kindly feeling constituted the commencement of friend-
ship, exactly as it is the pleasure of the eye that is the
commencement of love. For no
For no man loves another,
unless he has first taken pleasure in the sight of his
beauty. But yet this same pleasure does not in itself
constitute love, unless the lover also yearn for the loved
one in his absence, and long for his return. And,
similarly, it is impossible for friendship to exist without
kindly feeling, but yet mere kindly feeling does not,
on that account, constitute friendship. For all that
is essential to kindly feeling is that a man should wish
another well; and it is not at all necessary that he
should aid him in his efforts, or put himself to any trouble.
in his behalf. And hence, perhaps, we may be allowed
CHAP. VI.]
271
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
6.
to use a metaphor, and to say of kindly feeling that it is
a friendship which has not as yet borne fruit, but which
will none the less blossom into full friendship, if it have
sufficient time allowed it in which to reach the stage of
familiarity. But yet the friendship into which kindly
feeling develops, is neither that form of friendship which
is based upon utility, nor yet that form of friendship
which is based upon pleasure. Indeed, neither utility,
nor yet pleasure, ever gives rise to kindly feeling. For,
when a man has received a benefit, he makes a return for
it in the shape of kindly feeling, and the gratitude which
he thus shows is only just. And he, on the other hand,
who wishes prosperity to another, only because he hopes
ultimately to derive assistance from him, would not seem
on that account to have any kindly feeling towards him,
but rather, if anything, to have a kindly feeling towards
himself; exactly as a man is not held to be a friend to
another, if he pays court to him only for the sake of some
use to which he means to put him. To conclude, it would
seem as if kindly feeling really originated in some kind of
virtue or of goodness, and that its commencement is when
a man approves himself to another as being noble, or as
being brave, or as having some similar claim upon his
esteem; exactly as we said was sometimes the case with
competitors at the public games.
Unanimity, too, clearly has in it an element of friend-
ship. And hence it must not be confounded with mere
identity of opinion. For identity of opinion can exist
among those who are in absolute ignorance of one another.
Neither must the term 'unanimity' be applied to those
who consciously hold the same view upon any subject
whatever; as, for example, to those whose views are
(177.) identical upon questions of astronomy. For unanimity |
upon matters of this kind has in it no element of friend-
ship. But we say of a State that it acts with unanimity,
272
[BOOK LX.
THE NICOMACIEAN
when the citizens have but one opinion as to the public
weal, and have all but one purpose, and carry out the
decrees of the Deliberative as one man. Unanimity, in
a word, is concerned, not with matters of speculation,
but with matters of action,—and yet not with all even of
these, but with such alone as involve great interests, and
which equally concern, in the case of individuals, two
persons at the least, and, in the case of States, the whole
body of the citizens. We speak, for instance, of unanimity
in a State, when the citizens are, all to a man, agreed
that office should be elective, or that an alliance should
be entered into with Lacedæmon, or when they are all
agreed that Pittacus should for a period act as dictator,
Pittacus himself consenting thereunto. But when, as in
the Phoenician Women, each wishes to have the kingdom
for himself, then, instead of unanimity, we have faction.
For we do not speak of unanimity in those cases where
each person has the same view, whatever that view may
be; but only where each has the same view, and desires
to see it carried out in the same way; as when, for ex-
ample, both the commons and the upper classes are of
opinion that office should be held by those of most ability:
for it is under circumstances such as these alone that every
man gets that which he desires. Thus then unanimity
would appear to be a species of political or public friend-
ship,—which name indeed is often given to it, for it is
concerned with matters which are of public interest, and
which have a material bearing upon life. Such unanimity
is always to be observed among good men as a class. For
good men are of one mind with themselves, and with one.
another. And so we may say of them that they all, as
the proverb goes, 'ride at the same moorings,' inasmuch
as their counsels remain fixed, and do not, like the
Euripus, ebb and flow this way and that. For their
wish is for what is just, and for what is also at the same
CHAP. VII.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
273
7.
time expedient; and to this end they in common, one
and all, direct their desires. But among the bad unanimity
is as impossible as is friendship, unless it be for but a
short time, or in but a small matter. For in all matters
where their own interests are concerned they grasp at
unfair gain, and in all labour and public duty they make
default. Each one of them has his own ends in view, to
further which he thwarts his neighbour, and plays the
spy upon him. And thus the interests of the State are
ruined for want of due attention, and the result is a
condition of perpetual party faction, in which, while
no man really desires himself to act with justice, yet
each forces his neighbour to its observance.
It would seem that, as a rule, the benefactor loves him
upon whom he has conferred the benefit, more than he
who has received a kindness loves him at whose hands he
has received it; and this at first appears so strange, that
some reasonable explanation of it is required. The
generally accepted account is that he upon whom a
benefit has been conferred is, ipso facto, a debtor, and
that the benefactor is his creditor; and that thus,—
(178.) exactly as in the case of a loan, the debtor wishes that |
his creditor were out of the way, while the lender will
even go so far as to give considerable attention to the
welfare of his debtor,-so too here, those who have con-
ferred a benefit have an interest in the existence of
its recipient, in that they expect to reap some benefit
in return, whereas the recipient is by no means anxious
to render an equivalent for the kindness which he has
received. Now, Epicharmus would probably say that
this explanation takes too low a view of human nature.
But yet it agrees with the practice of mankind,—the
majority of whom have but short memories, and love to
receive rather than to confer a benefit. It would seem,
however, that the true explanation is to be found in one
T
274
[Book IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
of the most primary laws of the physical universe, and
that there is in reality no analogy between a benefactor
and a creditor. For the creditor feels no affection
towards his debtor, but merely desires his preservation,
in order that payment may be made; whereas those who
have conferred a benefit upon another feel an affection
and love for the recipient of their kindness, and that too
even when he is in no way either useful to them in the
present, or likely ever to be so in the future. And it would
seem that artists feel exactly the same sort of affection to-
wards their own works. For every man loves his own work,
much more deeply than his work would ever love him,
could it become endowed with life. And this rule holds
perhaps the most true in the case of poets. For the
affection of poets for their own verses goes to the very
greatest lengths, and they love them exactly as a father
loves his child. Now it would seem that it is upon this
analogy that the affection of benefactors can be best
explained, inasmuch as the recipient of a kindness stands.
in the same relation to the benefactor, as does his own
work to an artist. And so the benefactor loves his work
more than the work loves its maker. The reason of this
is, that their own existence is a thing which all beings
alike hold as choice-worthy, and which they, consequently,
love; and existence, in its highest sense, consists in the
manifestation of our inner self in some external act; as,
for example, in the process of life, or in moral action.
Now a man's work may in a certain sense be said to be¹
his own inner self embodied in an external form. And
hence it is that a man loves his own work, inasmuch as he
holds his own existence dear. And all this
And all this is only the
result of a primary law of nature. For our work mani-
fests in an actual form that which in our inner self exists
only in potentiality. It is also to be observed that, for
1 Read eσTí πws, and consult the note of Michelet.
CHAP. VII.]
275
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
the benefactor, his act is a noble thing, and that he conse-
quently takes delight in him in whom it is manifested;
whereas, for the recipient, there is in the benefactor
nothing that is noble, or that reflects honour upon himself,
but only a something useful,-and the useful is less
pleasant to us than is the noble, and calls forth less
affection. Now of the present, it is the actual and real
fact which yields us pleasure, of the future the expectation,
and of the past the memory; but, of all things, that is the
most pleasant, and, consequently, most of all the object
of our affection, which has the most real and actual
(179.) existence. Now, for the benefactor, his work remains
in continuous existence, inasmuch as that which is noble,
and which reflects honour upon us, is by its very nature
durable and lasting; whereas, for the recipient of a
kindness, the utility thereof is a perishable thing, and a
fleeting. Moreover, the memory of that which reflects
honour on us yields us pleasure; while the memory of
that which has been useful to us yields us a far less
pleasure, if, indeed, it may be said to yield any pleasure
at all,—the rule which holds good of the pleasures of
memory being exactly the reverse of that which holds
good of the pleasures of hope. Moreover, to feel an
affection for another involves activity, and, consequently,
gives more pleasure than it does to be the object of such
an affection; for to be loved involves passivity. And it
is he to whom, in any given case, the larger share of a
mutual action falls, who will feel the most affection for
the other, and who will manifest his affection in the
greatest number of ways. Lastly, it may be observed to
be a universal rule among men, that they cherish with
the greatest affection that which they have acquired with
the greatest labour. Those, for instance, who have made
their fortune by their own exertions, take far more
pleasure in it than do those who have acquired it by
T 2
276
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
8.
inheritance. And it would seem that to receive a kind-
ness involves no labour, whereas to confer a kindness is a
matter of trouble. Hence, too, it is that the mother
loves her child more than does the father; for to her,
more than to him, belongs the labour of its birth, and the
sense of right in that which she knows to be her own.
And of benefactors, equally with mothers, it would seem
that these two points are true.
Another problem that suggests itself is whether one
ought to give the greatest share of love to one's self, or
rather to others. For men censure those who love
themselves the most, and, by way of reproach, call them
selfish; and the popular conception of a bad man is that
in all his actions he has his own interests in view, and
that the more wicked he is the more will this be true of
him. And so against the bad man the charge is brought
that he never acts without an eye to his own welfare.
Whereas the good man is guided in all his actions by a
sense of honour, and the better man he is the more will
this be true of him; and in everything that he does he
looks to the interest of his friend, and disregards himself.
But with this point of view the facts of life are at
variance as might, indeed, have been expected. For, as
the common saying goes, a man ought to give his best
love to his best friend; and a man's best friend is he who
wishes him well for his own sake, without caring whether
others are aware of his affection. But this holds most
true of the feelings of a man towards himself; as is,
indeed, also, the case with all the other leading charac-
teristics of friendship. For, as has been said before, it is
from the attitude of a man towards himself that his attitude
towards others is derived. And with this point of view
all the popular proverbs agree; such as are, for instance,
'one soul in two bodies,' 'true friends have all things
in common,' 'equality makes friendship,' the knee is
CHAP. VIII.]
277
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
nearer than the shin,'-all of which hold most true of the
feelings of a man towards himself. For, since the best
(180.) friend a man has is himself, it follows that he ought to
love himself the most. And so it is but reasonable that
the problem should suggest itself, which of these two
points of view we ought to follow; since each has some-
thing to recommend it. And perhaps the best method in
such a case is to distinguish between the various meanings
of which each statement is susceptible, and so to determine
how far it is that each is true, and in what sense. If,
then, these two conflicting conceptions of self-love be
analysed, the problem will most probably find a solution.*
Now, those who use the term 'selfish' by way of
reproach, understand a man to be a lover of himself
when he allots to himself the larger share of wealth, or of
reputation in the eyes of men, or of bodily pleasure. For
it is these things which the majority of men desire, and
about which they busy themselves with zeal, as being
the greatest of all goods; and hence it is that these things
are objects of strife and of contention. Now, those who
grasp at the larger share of such goods as these, do so to
gratify their lust, and, indeed, their passions as a whole,
or, in a word, the irrational part of their soul. Such is
the disposition of the majority of mankind, and hence has
arisen the bad connotation of the term 'self-love,'-
inasmuch as the self-love of most men is of this lower
form.
It is with justice, then, that those are held in bad
repute who love themselves after this wise. And it is
evident that the term 'self-love' must, in its usual
acceptation, be understood to apply to those who allot to
themselves the larger share of such goods as these. For,
where a man is always busying himself with zeal that his
just acts may outnumber those of any other man, or where
he busies himself thus about temperance, or, indeed, about
any other form of virtue; and where his conduct, as a
278
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
"
whole, is always such as to gain honour for himself; then
no one calls him selfish, or thinks of blaming him. And
yet it would seem that such a man ought, more than any
other, to be said to show self-love. He certainly allots to
himself the noblest of all goods, and the best; and he
gratifies that part in himself to which supremacy right-
fully belongs, and obeys it in every matter. Now,
exactly as, in the case of a State, we understand by the
term 'the State' that part in it to which supremacy
belongs; so, too, of every other organised whole the same
rule holds good, and, amongst others, of the constitution of
man. And hence it follows that he, most of all men,
ought to be said to love himself, who cherishes that part
in himself which is supreme, and in all matters seeks to
gratify it. The same thing is shown by the derivation
of the terms self-restraint' and incontinence,' which
etymologically signify, the one that reason is supreme in
the man, the other that it is not; and which, consequently,
imply that it is his reason that really constitutes each man's
self. And it is also shown by the fact, that it is when their
acts are reasonable that men most especially hold that
they are their own acts, and that they have been done
voluntarily. It is, then, clear that it is the reason which,
if not entirely, at any rate most especially, constitutes
each man's self; and that it is this which the good man
most especially cherishes. And hence it is the good man
who, most of all, may be said to love himself; although
his self-love is of entirely another kind from that self-love
which brings reproach upon the selfish man, and although
(181.) he | differs from the selfish man as widely as the life of
reason differs from the life of passion, and the desire for
that which is noble differs from the desire for that by
which a man hopes to serve his own private ends. Now,
those who most distinguish themselves from others by the
zeal with which they pursue noble acts-these all men
CHAP. VIII.]
279
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
hold as worthy of esteem and of praise. And, indeed,
were men, one and all, to vie with one another in the
pursuit of honour, and to strive each to do the noblest
acts, then, not only would all the public wants of mankind
be fulfilled, but each man would enjoy, as his own especial
possession, the greatest of all possible goods,-if, indeed,
it be virtue that is such. And hence it follows that the
good man ought to be a lover of himself, inasmuch as,
if his acts be noble, he will reap good fruit for himself,
and will confer great benefit upon others. But, that the
bad man should love himself is not well; for he will but
injure himself, and with him his neighbours, by following
his evil desires. And thus, for the bad man, that which
he ought to do is at variance with that which he really
does; whereas, for the good man, that which he ought to
do is identical with that which he does. For, wherever
reason exists, there it chooses that which is best for itself
and the good man, in all things that he does, obeys his
reason. It is, moreover, true of the good man that, for
the sake of his friends, and for the sake of his country,
he will do many things; and that he is ready, if need be,
even to die in their behalf. Money, and honour, and all
such other goods as are objects of strife among mankind,
he will regard as naught, that he may gain for himself
the prize of honour. For he would sooner enjoy an
intense pleasure for a moment, than a trifling pleasure for
an age; and he would sooner lead a noble life for a year,
than drag out many ages of insignificant existence; and
his wish will be to do some one act which is great and
noble, rather than many which are trivial and unimpor-
tant. And it would seem that, when a man dies for
others, his lot is then such as this. Certain, at least, it
is that he chooses for himself an honour exceedingly great.
Such a man will think nothing of giving up his wealth,
that his friends may receive a larger share; for his friends
280
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
thereby gain wealth, while he for himself gains honours
and thus he really allots to himself the greater good.
And, with regard to honour in the eyes of meu, and
office in the State, his conduct will be guided by the same
rule; and he will gladly yield all such distinctions to his
friend, that he may gain for himself that true honour
which alone is worthy of praise. And, hence, with good
reason it is that he is held to be a good man, and an upright,
since he chooses honour rather than all things else. Nay,
more, it is conceivable that at times he should even yield
to his friend an opportunity of noble action, and that it
should reflect greater honour upon him that the noble act
of his friend should be thus due to his own generosity,
(182.) than that he should have done such an act himself. |
Thus, then, it is clear that, in all those matters wherein
praise is really due, the good man allots to himself the
larger share of honour. And in this sense it is well, as
we have said, that a man should love himself; but that a
man should love himself as do the many, is not well.
9.
A further question arises, as to whether the happy man.
will want friends, or not. For, it is said, those stand in
no need of friends whose lot is blessed and all-sufficient,
inasmuch as they already enjoy every possible good. In-
deed, the very conception of all-sufficiency is that it is
that state in which a man stands in need of nothing which
he has not already got; whereas a friend is a second self,
who provides for us that which is out of our own power:
as, indeed, is to be understood by the saying-
When Heaven gives happiness, what need of friends?
But yet it seems inconsistent to assign to the happy man
every possible good, and, at the same time, to deny him
the possession of friends, who are held of all purely exter-
nal goods to be the greatest. If, moreover, friendship
consists rather in the conferring of kindnesses than in the
..
CHAP. IX.]
281
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
receiving of them; and if to do good to others is the
characteristic of virtue, and, consequently, of the good
man; and if, too, it be nobler to do good to our friends
than to do good to strangers; then it will follow that the
good man will stand in need of friends to receive benefits
at his hands. And hence arises the further question,
whether it is in prosperity, or in adversity, that friends
are most necessary. For, on the one hand, he who is in
misfortune will need friends to aid and assist him; and, on
the other, he who is in prosperity will need friends upon
whom to confer kindnesses. It would, moreover, seem to
be strangely inconsistent to conceive the happy man as
leading a life of isolation. No man would choose to be
assured in the possession of all possible good at the price
of living a solitary life. For man is so constituted by
nature as to desire to be a member of a State, and to live
in the society of his fellow men. And of the happy man,
equally with all others, this holds true; inasmuch as all
those goods are his that are part of the scheme of nature.
And it is, moreover, clear that it is better for a man to
pass his time in the company of friends, and of good men,
than in the company of strangers, and of men of no repu-
tation; and that, consequently, the happy man will stand
in need of friends. What, then, is the meaning of the
statement with the consideration of which we commenced,
and in what sense is it true? May we not say that the
popular conception of a friend is that he is one who is use-
ful to us; and that the happy man will stand in no need
of friends of this sort, inasmuch as he already enjoys all
possible goods? And, similarly, he will stand in but little
need-if, indeed, in any-of friends to yield him pleasure.
(183.) For his | life has in itself a pleasure of its own, and so
stands in no need of any alien pleasure from without.
And it is because the happy man stands in no need of such
friends as these, that it has been held that he does not
282
[Boox IX.
TIIE NICOMACHEAN
stand in need of friends at all. But yet it would seem as
if the truth herein were something more than overstated.
For, as we said in the beginning, all happiness consists in
activity. And it is clear that an activity is not to be
compared to a chattel, which its owner possesses once
and for all; but that it rather is, as it were, in perpetual
play, and recommences its existence at each moment of
its continuance. Now, if happiness consists in life, or, in
other words, in activity; and if the activities of the good
man are not only good in themselves, but also have, as
we have said in the beginning, a pleasure of their own;
and if, moreover, that which is our own, or akin to us,
yields us pleasure; and, lastly, if we can contemplate our
neighbours better than we can ourselves, and their actions
better than we can our own:-then it cannot but be that,
for those who are good, the actions of the good, who are
their friends, will have a pleasure to yield; inasmuch as in
them the two conditions of true and natural pleasure are
fulfilled, in that they are not only good in themselves, but
also akin to him who contemplates them. And, from all
this, it follows that the happy man will stand in need of
such friends as these, inasmuch as he will love to contem-
plate actions which are good in themselves, and akin to
his own.
And the actions of the good man, who is his
friend, will be such. Moreover, men are agreed that the
life of the happy man ought to be a pleasant life. Now, for
him who leads a life of isolation, life itself is a hard task.
For it is no easy matter for a man entirely by himself to
maintain a continuous activity; but it becomes more
easy when he is in company with others, and has others
than himself whom his activities affect. And thus the
activities of the good man, which have, as has been said, a
pleasure of their own, become also more continuous. And
for perfect happiness such continuity is essential. A
pleasure of their own they have, inasmuch as the good
CHAP. IX.]
283
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
man, being good, cannot but take pleasure in acts of
virtue, and look with indignation upon acts of vice; ex-
actly as a musician takes pleasure in good music, and is
annoyed by bad. It is true, moreover, as Theognis says,
that the society of the good is a school in which one cannot
but practise virtue. Lastly, if the question be considered
from the point of view afforded by the primary laws of
nature, it would seem to be a natural ordinance that, for
the good man, a good friend should be a choiceworthy
thing. For that which has its place in the scheme of
nature as a good, is also, as we have elsewhere said, a good
thing to the good man, and, moreover, a pleasant thing in
itself. Now, in determining the definition of life, we
adopt as its criterion, in animals the faculty of perception,
and in man the faculties of perception and of thought,
always referring to the activity as the evidence of the
existence of the faculty. It is, indeed, in the activity
that all that is distinctively important in the faculty con-
sists; and hence it would seem that it is the activities of
perception and of thought which really constitute the life
of man. Now, life is a thing that is in itself, and inde-
(184.) pendently of all results, both good and pleasant; | for in
it is to be found that definiteness and harmony which has
been held to be the essence of all good. But that which
has its place in the scheme of nature as a good, will be a
good also to the good man. And this would, perhaps,
seem to be the reason why life is a thing which seems
sweet to all. But, still, this must not be held to apply to
a life which is marred by vice, or by misery, or by pain;
for, in such a life, as indeed in all the elements of which
it is composed, such traces of harmony as are to be found
are dim and broken. As regards pain more especially, we
shall hereafter have occasion to set forth this truth more
clearly. Thus, then, life is in itself, and independently of
all results, both good and pleasant. Of this there is.
284
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
indeed, sufficient evidence in the fact that life is, for all
men, an object of desire, and most especially so for those
who are good and happy; for, for such, their life, in its
moral aspect, is most choiceworthy, and their existence is
in itself most intrinsically blessed. Now, he who sees is
conscious that he sees, and he who hears that he hears,
and he who walks that he walks; and, similarly, in the
case of all our other faculties, we have in us a something
that is conscious of our activities: and we, consequently,
perceive that we perceive, and think that we think. And,
to be conscious of our own perception, or of our own
thought, is, really, to be conscious of our own existence;
for it is the activities of perception and of thought which
really constitute our existence. But the consciousness of
life is a thing that is pleasant in itself; for life is a thing
that is by nature good, and to be conscious that we
possess in ourselves that which is good, is a pleasant
thing. Thus, then, life is a thing that is choiceworthy in
itself; and it is such to the good man more than to any
other, because, for the good man, existence is a good
thing, and a pleasant, in that he takes pleasure in the
conscious possession of that which is good absolutely, and
in itself. And, exactly as the good man feels towards
himself, so, too, does he feel towards his friend, regarding
his friend as a second self. And from all this it follows
that, exactly as for each man his own existence is a thing
choiceworthy and good, so, too, for him, or, similarly, the
existence of his friend is such. Now, we have said that
existence is choiceworthy, because in it is involved the
consciousness of the possession of good, which conscious-
ness involves and implies a pleasure of its own. And
hence it follows that a man ought to have a sympathetic
consciousness of the existence of his friend. And, to
acquire this consciousness, friends must live together, or,
in other words, each must share in the plans and specula-
CHAP. X.]
285
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
tions of the other. For it is this that we understand
when we say of men that they live together, and not
merely, as of cattle, that they herd in the same haunts.
Thus, then, for the happy man, existence is a thing
choiceworthy in itself, and independently of all results;
being one of those things which, in the scheme of nature.
as a whole, are good in themselves, and have a pleasure
of their own.
And, similarly, for him the existence of his
(185) friend is a good. And thus it follows that a friend is a
choiceworthy thing. Now, whensoever any particular
thing is choiceworthy for a man, then either he must have
that thing, or else, in so far as he has it not, his happiness
will be deficient. And thus it conclusively follows, that
the happy man will stand in need of good and upright
friends.
IO. Does it, then, follow that a man cannot have too
many friends? Or ought we rather to bear in mind what
has so epigrammatically been said as to the relation of
mutual hospitality between the inhabitants of different
countries-
Nor many guest friends may I have, nor none;
and to hold that the most fitting rule for friendship is,
neither to be entirely without friends, nor yet to allow the
number of our friends to run to excess? Now, as regards
that form of friendship which is based upon utility, the
rule which we have just given would seem to be especially
applicable. For, to make a fitting return to very many
persons for the services which they have rendered, is a
matter of great difficulty, and for which the ordinary
course of life is hardly of sufficient length. And, where
the number of our friends is greater than the necessities of
our life actually require, then friendship becomes a labour,
and a hindrance to noble action. And hence a man
stands in no need of many friends of this kind. Similarly,
286
[Book IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
in the case of that friendship which is based upon plea-
sure, exactly as a little sweetening sweetens the whole
mass, so of such friends a few are all that is required.
But, in the case of true friends and good, ought it to be
our rule to have of such the greatest number possible, or
ought there rather to be some limit to the number of
our friends, exactly as there is some natural limit to the
numbers of a State? For, neither do ten citizens make a
State, nor yet ten times ten thousand. But, if it be
asked what is, in such cases, the fitting number, the pro-
blem is not like a simple equation, which admits of but
one solution, but rather like an indeterminate equation,
which admits of any solution whatever within certain
limits. And hence it follows that the fitting number of
friends is a something definite, being, perhaps, the largest
number with which it is possible for a man to live. For
there is nothing so essential to friendship as that friends
should live together; and it is self-evident that, with more
than a certain number of persons, it is impossible for a
man so to live as to give to each of them any appreciable
amount of his time and company. Moreover, a man's
friends must also be friends among themselves, or other-
wise it will be impossible for them all to associate with
one another. And, if their number be large, this will be
no easy matter. It is, moreover, a hard task to sympa-
thise in the joys and sorrows of many men, as if they were
our own; and we shall probably find ourselves involved in
the dilemma of having to sympathise with the joy of that
man and with the sorrow of this at one and the same
time. And so, perhaps, it is a safe rule not to strive to
(186.) have as many friends as is absolutely possible, | but
rather to be content with such a number that it becomes
possible for us to pass our life in their society. And, in-
deed, it would seem that it is impossible for a man to feel
a strong friendship for many friends at once, exactly as it
CHAP. XI.]
287
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
II.
As for
is impossible to feel love for more than one. Love, indeed,
may be defined as friendship pushed to its absolute limit,
and so can only be felt for one. And, similarly, for
friendship to be strong, it must only be felt for a few. To
all this it would seem that witness is borne by facts. For
it is but seldom that a brotherhood in arms has many
members; and, wherever such a friendship has become.
famous in story, it has always been between two.
those who are men of many friends, and who are upon
intimate terms with all those whom they meet, it would
seem that they are not really the friends of any one, ex-
cept in so far as to move in the same society may be held
to constitute friendship. Men of this kind are called
over-polite. Not but that it is, of course, quite possible
to show all the courtesies of society to any number of per-
sons, and yet, at the same time, not to carry politeness to
excess, but to maintain a proper self-respect. But that
friendship which is based upon virtue, and in which we
love our friend for his own sake, cannot possibly be felt
for many.
And so, if a man find but a few such friends,
he must rest content.
•
It may also be asked whether it is in prosperity that
we most stand in need of friends, or in adversity. It is
certain that, in each case alike, men seek for friends. For
those who are in adversity stand in need of aid and assist-
ance; and those, on the other hand, whose lot is prospe-
rous, need some one with whom to pass their life, and
upon whom to confer benefits; inasmuch as their desire is
to make others also happy. Now, when we are in adver-
sity, then friends become necessary; and, consequently, in
such a case we need friends who will be of service to us.
But, in prosperity, the possession of friends becomes more.
noble. And hence the prosperous seek to make friends
to themselves of good men, inasmuch as to do good to
such, and to pass one's time with them, is the more choice-
288
[BOOK IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
4
worthy. When we are in adversity, then the presence of
friends is pleasant in itself, and independently of all re-
sults. For men feel their sorrow to be lightened when
their friends sympathise with them in their distress. And
this fact has suggested the further question, whether the
assistance which they thus render is mechanical, as when
one man aids another in carrying a burden, and so actually
relieves him of a portion of the weight; or whether it is
rather to be explained upon moral grounds, in that the
presence of friends has a pleasure of its own, which,
coupled with the consciousness of their sympathy in our
sorrow, makes our grief easier to bear. Whether, how-
ever, either of these, or whether any other be the true
explanation of the relief afforded in misfortune by the
presence of friends, we need not now consider; it being
sufficient for our present purpose to be assured that the
result described does actually take place. But yet their
presence is not an entirely unmixed solace. It is, indeed,
true, on the one hand, that the very sight of a friend is
pleasant, especially when one is in adversity, and that he
acts as an ally in our struggle with our sorrows. For, if
(187.) a friend have tact and discernment, he will adopt such a |
countenance, and such speech, as shall cheer his friend,
knowing, as he does, what is his character, and what are
the occasions of his joys and sorrows. But yet, on the
other hand, it is a grievous thing for a man to perceive
that his own misfortunes give sorrow to his friend. And
to bring sorrow upon his friends is a thing which every
mau does his best to avoid. And hence a man who is of
a manly nature will use all caution, lest he should trouble
his friends with his own sorrows. Such a man cannot
bear to see his friends distressed, unless, indeed, he be of
more than ordinary insensibility; nor does he ever welcome
demonstrative sympathy, inasmuch as useless lamentation
is absolutely alien to his character. But women of the
CHAP. XI.]
289
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
weaker kind, and men of character like to them, are de-
lighted to find others to join in their lamentations; and,
when they find such, hold them dear, as being true
friends, and showing true sympathy with distress. But
the clear rule in this, as in all other cases, is to mould our
conduct upon the best model. When, on the other hand,
we are in prosperity, then the presence of our friends
makes time pass pleasantly, and fills us with the sweet
thought that they rejoice with us in our good fortune.
And hence it would seem that, when we are in prosperity,
we cannot be too ready to summon our friends to share
our good fortune-for to confer benefits upon others is a
noble thing, but that we ought to be slow to call upon.
them to share our misfortunes, inasmuch as we ought to do
all that we can to avoid inflicting upon others any portion
of our own ills. And hence has come the saying, 'one
head is enough for trouble.' But the most fitting time.
of all for a man to summon his friends, is when it is in
their power to do him a great service with but little
trouble to themselves. And so, too, the most fitting time
for a man to seek his friends is when they are in distress;
and he should seek them with all zeal and willingness, and
without waiting to be asked. For friendship shows itself
in doing good to others, and especially to those who are in
need,—and, above all, in doing good to those who have
not claimed such assistance as their right; for this last is
not only more noble for both, but also more pleasant.
But, when a man's friends are in prosperity, then he
ought readily to go to them, if he can in any way aid
them in their good fortune for even in prosperity friends
can be of good service; but he should be slow to offer
himself to share in their comforts-for to be over eager to
receive a benefit is not noble. Not but that we ought to
take heed lest, by rejecting favours, we gain a reputation
for churlishness: for this not unfrequently happens.
U
290
[Book IX.
THE NICOMACHEAN
12.
Thus, then, it is evident that, under all circumstances
alike, the presence of friends is a choiceworthy thing.
To conclude; may not one say that, exactly as, for
the lover, the most precious of all his pleasures is to look
upon the object of his love, and, exactly as he holds the
one sense of sight dearer than all the others, because it is
by it most of all that Love exists, and in it that he has his
birth; so, too, for friends, the most choiceworthy of all
things is to pass their time together, since the essence of
(188.) friendship is community? Moreover, as a man feels to-
wards himself, so, too, does he feel towards his friend;
and, exactly as, in his own case, the consciousness of his
own existence is a choiceworthy thing, so, too, is the con-
sciousness of the existence of his friend. And it is when
friends pass their lives together that this consciousness
is most vividly realised; and hence, with good reason, to
pass their lives together is the object of their desire. And
hence, too, in whatever it is that a man conceives exist-
ence to be centred, or whatever that be for the sake of
which he holds life dear, in the pursuit of that will he
wish, in common with his friends, to pass his life. And,
for this reason, some drink together, others dice together,
others engage together in athletic exercises, others in
hunting, and others again in philosophy, passing, in each
case, their time in that pursuit which of all things in life.
they love the best. For, since men desire to pass their
lives in the company of their friends, they will do all
that, and will share with their friends in all that in which
they hold that such community of life most consists.
And hence the friendship of the bad itself becomes bad;
for, unstable as water, they share in what is evil, and be-
come like unto one another, bad to bad. Whereas the
friendship of the good is itself also good, and is intensified
1 For aurois read aurs with Zell and Cardwell.
CHAP. XII.]
291
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
by intercourse. Indeed, it would seem that good friends
grow in virtue by doing good acts, and by keeping a
watch each upon the ways of the other. For with the
stamp of his own pleasures each man marks his friend:
and this is the meaning of the saying-
Live with the good, and thou shalt learn their ways.
Here, then, closes our account of friendship. It follows
to treat thoroughly of the nature of pleasure.
#
}
σ 2
292
[BOOK X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
X.
1. NEXT, perhaps, it follows to fully treat of pleasure; for
(189.) it, most of all things, would seem to be part of the very
nature of the human race: and hence, too, they train the
young, guiding them by the twin rudders of pleasure and
of pain. Moreover, the chief step towards moral virtue
would seem to be that we should take pleasure in what we
ought, and should loathe what we ought. For pleasure
and pain extend throughout the whole course of our life,
and have an influence sufficiently critical to turn the
scale, either for virtue and happiness, or for the contrary.
For all men choose what gives them pleasure, and avoid
what gives them pain. And, since the subject is of this
nature, it would seem that it, least of all, ought to be
passed over, especially since there are upon it many and
conflicting views. For some assert that pleasure is the
chief good; others, on the contrary, that it is wholly and
altogether bad; the former being, perhaps, convinced of
the truth of their statement, while the latter hold that, for
the purposes of life, it is best to make out that pleasure is
a bad thing, even although it be not such; for that most
men have already quite sufficient inclination towards it,
and are, in fact, the slaves of their pleasures; and that so
we ought to try to lead them to the exactly contrary
course, for that thus they will arrive at the true mean.
But in this, perhaps, they are not altogether right. For,
in all matters of human feeling and conduct, abstract
argument is far less to be relied upon than are facts; and,
when it contradicts the results of actual experience, falls
into contempt, and involves, with itself, all such truth as
CHAP. II.]
293
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
it may contain. He who condemns pleasure as a whole,
and who has been once observed to aim at pleasure, is
held to incline towards it as being, as a whole, choice-
worthy. For, in such matters, the many would seem to
be incapable of drawing any accurate distinction. And
so it would seem that true statements concerning such
matters are not only most useful from the scientific point
of view, but also from that of their practical bearing upon
life. For they are observed to be concordant with facts,
and hence they are believed: so that those who under-
stand them are induced to frame their life in accordance
(190.) with them. | And, now that we have said enough upon
this point, we will turn to a discussion of the various
statements that have been made respecting pleasure.
2.
Now, Eudoxus conceived pleasure to be the chief good,
because he saw that all beings alike, both rational and
irrational, make it the aim of their action; and because he
held that, in all cases, that which was deemed choice-
worthy was good, and that which was deemed most
choiceworthy was the highest good. And the fact that
all beings were borne towards the same end, was proof
that this end was, for all of them, the best; for everything,
said he, naturally discovers its own good, exactly as it
also discovers its appropriate food; and that which is good
for all things alike, and at which all things alike aim, can-
not but be the chief good. His arguments gained
strength rather from the excellence of his own character
than from any intrinsic worth of their own; for he had, of
all men, the highest reputation for temperance, and was,
consequently, believed to take up this position, not be-
cause he was any friend of pleasure, but because he was
convinced of the truth of his assertions. He also held
that the argument afforded by the law of contradiction no
less proved his point; for that pain, in itself, and inde-
pendently of its consequences, was a thing which all beings
294
[BOOK X
THE NICOMACIIEAN
alike did well to shun; and that, consequently, pleasure,
its exact contrary, must, for all beings alike, be choice-
worthy. And that that, moreover, must be the most
choiceworthy of all things, which we do not ever choose
from any other inducement than itself, or as a means to
anything beyond itself. And that pleasure was confess-
edly of this nature; for that no one ever proposes to him-
self the superfluous question, from what motive it is that
he feels such or such a pleasure; since all pleasure is
choiceworthy in and by itself. Lastly, that pleasure,
when added to any other good thing, made it better,-as
to justice, for example, and to temperance; and that that
by the addition of which a good was made any better,
must itself be a good. But, then, this last argument only
scems to prove that pleasure is a good of some sort, and
not in any way that it is more a good than is any other.
For any good whatsoever, if another good be added to it,
becomes more choiceworthy than it is if it be taken by
itself. Nay, more, it is by much this same argument that
Plato shows that it is impossible for pleasure to be the
chief good. For, he argues, the life of pleasure is more
preferable with the addition of wisdom than it is without
it. And so, since the combination of the two is prefer-
able to pleasure alone and by itself, it follows that it is
impossible for pleasure to be the chief good. For it is a
criterion of the chief good, that it cannot possibly be made
better by any addition. And hence, too, it is clear, not
only that the chief good is not pleasure, but also that it is
not anything else which, if any other absolute good be
added to it, becomes thereby better. What good, then,
is there which is both incapable of any addition, and also
within our reach? For it is a good of this kind that is the
object of our investigations. To resume: those who bring
(191.) forward instances to show that that | at which all beings
aim need not on that account be good, would seem to
CHAP. III.]
295
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
argue to no purpose. For that in which all are agreed,
that, we say, is true; and he who denies the sufficiency of
such conviction, will hardly himself have better grounds
of proof to offer. Had it been brute beasts alone that
craved for pleasure, then the point would have deserved
consideration. But, since rational beings as well desire
it, how can the argument have any weight? And,
perhaps, even to the lower animals nature has given a
principle of good, higher than themselves, which, in each
case, strives to work out the real good of its possessor.
Neither does their answer to the argument drawn from
the laws of contradiction seem satisfactory.
For, say
they, it does not follow that, if all pain be evil, all plea-
sure is therefore good. For it is possible that an evil may
be the contrary of another evil, and that both a good and
an evil may be the contraries of a something which is
neither. And in this they are not entirely wrong, al-
though the application of the principle to the particular
case in question is incorrect. For, if both pleasure and
pain were evil, then ought both equally to have been
avoided; if neither evil nor yet good, then ought each to
have been neither pursued nor avoided,—or, at any rate,
the one ought to have been either pursued or avoided
to exactly the same extent as the other, and no further.
But, as it is, men clearly do avoid pain as an evil, and
pursue pleasure as a good. And it is, therefore, indis-
putable that they are opposed to one another, as perfect
3. and complete contradictories. Nor does it follow that,
because pleasure is not a quality, it therefore is not a
good. For virtuous acts do not answer to the definition of
a quality, nor does even happiness itself. And they say,
moreover, that the good is definite, or absolutely perfect,
-but that pleasure is indefinite, because it admits of
variation in degree. Now, if they are led to this conclu-
sion because they observe that the degree to which a man
296
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
.
is affected by pleasure may vary, then the argument
which they apply to pleasure will equally disprove the
goodness of justice, and of all the other virtues; with
reference to which we distinctly say that the goodness of
different men is a matter of degree. For, to be just or
brave, and to do just or temperate acts, is a matter of de-
gree. But, if they mean that pleasure is in itself indefi-
nite, they most probably miss the right explanation; for
some pleasures are pure, while others have with them a
mixture of pain. And why should it not be the case that
pleasure should be like health, which is definite in itself,
and which yet admits of variation in degree? For the
acme of healthy temperament is not identical in all men,
nor indeed always identical in the same individual,—but
may be relaxed within certain limits (that is to say, may
within certain limits vary in degree) and yet remain
healthy. And of pleasure, too, a similar rule may possi-
(192.) bly hold good. And they further say that the good is
complete in itself, while processes of development or of
alternation are incomplete, and presuppose an end beyond
themselves. And they then attempt to show that all
pleasure is a process of development or of alternation.
But their arguments do not seem conclusive, nor does it
even seem true that pleasure is a process of development.
For every such process must, of its very nature, proceed
either quickly or slowly. And this quickness or slow-
ness, if it be not absolute, as it is in the development of
the universe as a whole, must then be relative, as it is
in the development of its various parts. But of pleasure.
neither quickness nor slowness, whether absolute or rela-
tive, is possibly predicable. One can, indeed, become
pleased quickly, exactly as one can become angry
quickly; but one cannot be pleased quickly,-not even ast
compared with another man, although, as compared
with another man, it is possible to walk quickly, and to
|
CHAP. III.]
297
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
grow quickly, and so forth. In a word, the transition
into a state of pleasure may take place either quickly or
slowly, but the actual feeling of pleasure, I mean the being
pleased, cannot possibly be either quick or slow. And in
what sense can pleasure possibly be a process of alterna-
tion? For it is held that the poles of such a process are
not arbitrary, but that each pole is resolved back again
into that out of which it was originally generated; and
that pain is the process by which is destroyed that state
or condition, in the production of which pleasure consists.
And, more definitely, we are told that pain involves and
consists in a defect in our natural condition, and that
pleasure is the counter-process of restoration. But all
this is merely true of the bodily affections. If pleasure
be, in truth, such a process of restoration, then that in
which this process goes on ought to feel the pleasure, and
pleasure ought therefore to be felt exclusively by the
body-which does not, however, appear to be the case.
Pleasure, therefore, is not in itself a process of restora-
tion; although, while such a process is going on, a man
may feel a pleasure, much as, while undergoing an ampu-
tation, he may feel a pain. Indeed, this opinion would
seem to have arisen from too exclusive a consideration of
those pleasures and pains which are involved in eating
and drinking. For herein it really does seem that we
are, as a matter of fact, conscious of a bodily deficiency,
and that we consequently commence by feeling a pain,
and that we then feel a pleasure when that deficiency is
supplied. But then this is by no means true of all the
pleasures. The pleasures of learning, for instance, are
not preceded by any pain; and, among the pleasures of
sense, the same is true of those of smell, as it is also of
many sounds, and sights, and memories, and hopes. What
is there, then, of which these can possibly be the processes
of production? For, in none of them is there involved
298
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
any previous deficiency to be supplied. In answer to
those who allege the disgraceful pleasures as a proof that
all pleasures are bad, one may answer that such things do
not really give any pleasure at all. For it does not follow
that, because a thing is pleasant to those who are in bad
(193.) health, | it is therefore to be held to be pleasant to any
save these; exactly as that is not of necessity to be held
wholesome, or sweet, or bitter, which may seem such to the
sick; nor is that to be held white which may look such to
those who suffer from ophthalmia. And may not one also
reply, that the pleasures in question are in themselves
choiceworthy, although not such when viewed with refe-
rence to the source from which they are derived; much as
wealth is choiceworthy, although not when it has been
gained by treason, and health, although not if it be
viewed as the result of eating a something peculiarly
nauseous? And, lastly, may not one also say that plea-
sures differ from one another in kind? For the pleasures
which are derived from noble sources are of one kind, and
the pleasures which are derived from disgraceful sources
are of another; and one cannot feel the pleasure of the
just man, unless one be just; nor the pleasure of the mu-
sician, unless one be a musician; and of all other pleasures
a similar rule holds good. Moreover, the distinction
which we draw between the friend and the sycophant
would seem clearly to show that pleasure and the good
are not identical, or, at all events, that pleasures differ in
kind. For the object of the intercourse of the friend is
the good, while that of the intercourse of the sycophant is
pleasure; and, while the latter meets with reproach, the
former meets with praise, since their objects differ. More-
over, no one would choose to live through his whole life
with only a child's understanding, although taking the
keenest possible pleasure in childish objects; or to pur-
chase pleasure as the reward of some most disgraceful
CHAP IV.]
299
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
2.
act, even if assured that he should never feel a moment's
pain. Lastly, there are many things about which we
should busy ourselves with zeal, even if they brought no
pleasure with them; such as are, for instance, sight,
memory, knowledge, and the possession of virtue. And,
even although such things are of necessity accompanied
by a pleasure of their own, yet this really makes no dif-
ference; for we should none the less choose each one of
them, even if no pleasure whatever resulted from it. It
would seem, then, to be clear that neither is pleasure, as a
whole, identical with the good, nor is all pleasure choice-
worthy; and, also, that there are certain pleasures which
are choiceworthy in and by themselves, and which differ
from all other pleasures in kind, or in their source. And
this may be held to be a sufficient account of the current
opinions concerning pleasure and pain.
What is the genus, and what the essence of pleasure,
will become more evident if we entirely recommence the
subject. It would seem that the act of sight is, at any
moment whatever of its continuance, absolutely perfect
and complete in itself; for it stands in need of nothing be-
yond itself, by the subsequent addition of which it will be
made perfect in its kind. And pleasure, too, would seem
to be of a similar nature; for it is in itself a complete
whole, by which I mean, that we can fix upon no mo-
194.) ment in the continuance of a pleasure at which a longer |
continuance will be necessary to make it perfect in its
kind. And hence it is incorrect to speak of pleasure as a
process of development. For every such process requires
time in which to take place, and presupposes some end
beyond itself at which it aims. The process, for instance,
of building a temple can only properly be called complete
when it has succeeded in producing that at which it aims,
that is to say, the temple itself; and, consequently, can
only become complete in the whole time which it takes to
300
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
build the temple, or in the last indivisible moment of
that time. But, in the various portions of that time as a
whole, the various processes that take place are all incom-
plete in themselves, and differ in kind from the entire
process as a whole, and from one another. For the pro-
cess of fitting together the blocks is distinct in kind from
that of the erection of the row of columns, and both these
are distinct in kind from that of the building of the tem-
ple as a whole. Now, the process of building the temple
as a whole is (when once the temple has been built) com-
plete; for there is nothing which is wanted to complete
the carrying out of the plan. But the process of laying
the stylobate, and that of adding the triglyph, are (even
when each is finished) incomplete in themselves, since the
result of each is only a part of the proposed plan as a
whole. They, therefore, differ in kind from the entire
process; and hence, also, it is that one cannot say of a
process that it is perfect in kind at any moment of its
continuance, but can only say so of it, with truth, when
the whole time which it requires has actually elapsed.
And of walking, and indeed of all other processes, the
same rule holds good. Locomotion, for instance, may be
defined as a process commencing in a place whence, and
terminating in a place whither. And of locomotion there
are several distinct kinds; as are flying, walking, leaping,
and so forth. And not only is this true of locomotion as
a whole, but, even of walking, the same rule is true. For
the space between the whence and the whither is not
identical in the stadium as a whole and in a portion of the
stadium, nor in one portion and in another. Nor is it
the same thing to cross this particular line as to cross
that;
for it is not a line in the abstract which we have to
cross, but a line in a definite locality; and one line is in a
different locality from another. We have elsewhere given
an exact and abstract account of the nature of processes,
CHAP. IV.]
301.
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
from which it would seem that no process can properly be
called complete at any moment of its continuance; but
that the majority are incomplete in themselves, and that
they also differ from one another in kind, since their de-
terminants in each case are the whence and the whither.
But pleasure is, at any moment of its continuance, perfect
in kind. And hence it is clear that pleasure is altogether
distinct from any kind of process, being a complete whole,
and absolutely perfect in itself. And the same thing
would seem to follow from the fact that we cannot go
through a process, except it be in time; but that we can
feel pleasure altogether irrespectively of time; for that
only is an absolute whole which is complete in itself at
the present indivisible moment. And from all this it is
clear that it is incorrect to say that pleasure is, in any
sense, a process of development, or of alternation. It is
not all things alike that can be said to be the results of
such a process, but only those that are divisible into
parts, and so are not absolute wholes. No process of
alternate perfection and imperfection is involved in the
act of sight, or in a mathematical point, or in the unit;
nor are any of these things in any way concerned with
(195.) any process of development, or of alternation; nor yet
is pleasure; for pleasure is, like these, an absolute whole.
Now, all sense requires a sensible object upon which to
act, and acts perfectly only when it is in good condition,
and acting upon its best object. It would, indeed, seem to
be essential to a perfect act, that it should be of this kind,
and that these conditions should be fulfilled; nor need it
matter whether we say that it is the sense which acts, or
the organ in which it is placed. And hence it follows, that
the act will, in each case, be best when the sense is in the
best possible condition, and is acting upon its best object.
And such an act will not only be most perfect in itself,
but will also give the highest pleasure. For, in every act
302
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
of sense a pleasure is involved; as also in every act of
reason, whether discursive or contemplative; and the
most perfect act will give the highest pleasure; and the
most perfect act is that in which the faculty is in good
condition, and is acting upon its best and highest object.
But the excellence of the pleasure, and the excellence of
the object, and the excellence of the faculty, do not all
three perfect the act in the same way; as neither is health
the cause of our being healthy in the same sense as is the
physician. That each of the senses has a pleasure of its
own is self-evident, for we say of sights and of sounds that
they are pleasant. And it is also evident that such a
pleasure is then most especially involved, when the sense
is at its best, and is acting upon an object similarly excel-
lent. When, then, both the sensible object and the sen-
tient subject are in this condition, a pleasure will always
continue to be the result, so long as neither the active nor
the passive factor be withdrawn. The pleasure, then, in
each case perfects the act, not as might some definite
quality continuously existing in its object, but rather as
an additional flush of perfection, such as is the bloom of
those who are in their prime. So long, then, as the ob-
ject of thought, or the object of sense be such as it ought,
and that which perceives, or that which thinks be also
such, the act, whether it be of perception or of thought,
will always involve a pleasure. For, in those cases
where there is a similar passive and a similar active fac-
tor, between which a similar relation is involved, in the
very nature of things a similar result must follow. How,
then, is it that no one ever feels pleasure continuously?
Is it not because one flags? For no human activity can
possibly be continuous. And, consequently, a continuous
pleasure is an impossibility; for all pleasure is the result
of activity. For this same reason it is that some things
gratify us as long as they are new to us, but, when the
الله
CHAP. V.]
303
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
novelty of them has once worn off, no longer yield us the
same pleasure as at first. For, at first the understanding
(196.) is stimulated, and occupies itself upon its | object with its
full energy, as does one who looks you full in the face;
but afterwards the act is no longer such, but becomes
negligent, like a careless glance, and, consequently, the
pleasure fades. There is good reason to suppose that all
men desire pleasure, since¹ all men crave for the con-
sciousness of active life. Life consists in activity, and
each man's activities show themselves in and about those
things which he most loves; as, for instance, the activities
of the musician manifest themselves with his hearing in
the matter of music, and those of the philosopher with his
understanding in the matter of speculation, and so forth
in all other cases. Now, since pleasure perfects all our
activities, it follows that it also perfects that activity of
life as a whole which is the object of every man's desire.
With good reason, then, is it that men make pleasure.
their aim. For pleasure perfects for each one of us that
active exercise of life which all alike hold choiceworthy.
But, whether we pursue life for the sake of the pleasure
which it yields, or pleasure for the sake of the life which
it perfects, is a problem which may for the present be dis-
missed. It is evident that the two are, in actual fact, so
closely connected as to be inseparable. For without
activity there can be no pleasure, and without pleasure no
5. activity can be perfect. And hence it would seem that
pleasures differ in kind. For, things that are distinct.
from one another in kind can only be perfected by things
that are also distinct from one another in kind. This rule
evidently holds good of all products of nature and of art,
as of animals, for instance, and of trees, and of pictures,
and of statues, and of houses, and of furniture; and, simi-
1 ""Отe pro тɩ Bekkerus solus; nescio an vitio typothetæ.'-Michelet.
304
[BOOK X.
THE NICOMACIIEAN
larly, it is clear that activities which differ in kind can
only be perfected by things which also differ in kind.
Now, the activities of the intellect differ in kind from
those of the senses, and those of the senses differ from one
another in kind; and, consequently, the pleasures by
which they are perfected will also differ from one another
in kind. And we shall clearly be led to the same conclu-
sion, if we reflect upon the close affinity which exists.
between the pleasure which perfects each particular act
and the act itself. Each act is intensified by its appro-
priate pleasure; and it is those who take a pleasure in the
act who, in each case, form the most accurate judgment,
or produce the most perfect result. Those, for instance,
who take pleasure in the solution of a geometrical pro-
blem, make better geometricians than do other men, and
perceive a mathematical truth with greater ease and
quickness. And of those who take pleasure in singing,
and of those who take pleasure in architecture, the same
rule holds good;—it being, indeed, universally true that
those who take pleasure in the performance of their pecu-
liar function improve their aptitude for and their skill in
its performance. It follows, therefore, that pleasure in-
tensifies the act which it accompanies; and that which
intensifies anything else cannot but have an affinity with
(197.) it. But, where things | differ from one another in kind,
then such other things as are severally akin to them will
also differ in kind. Our conclusion is yet further estab-
lished by the fact, that each act is impeded by the plea-
sure of any other. Those, for instance, who are fond of
the flute, are unable to give any attention to an argu-
ment, should they chance to overhear a flute-player;
inasmuch as the pleasure which they take in flute-playing
is greater than is that which they take in the act in which
they are at the time engaged; and so the pleasure of
flute-playing destroys the act of philosophic discussion.
Спар. V.]
305
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
12
And, in all other cases where a man is occupied upon two
objects at once, the same result follows. For the more
pleasant of the two acts overpowers the other. As the
difference between the two in respect of the pleasure
which they give increases, the effect becomes yet more
marked, and at last, indeed, grows so great that the
less pleasant of the two is altogether discontinued.
And hence it is that, when we take a very great pleasure
in any one thing, we find ourselves entirely unable to
do anything else at the same time with it; and that,
whenever we do two things at once, it is because we take
but little pleasure in either. Those, for instance, who
eat nuts and biscuits at the theatre, do so with most dili-
gence when the acting is bad. And thus, since its ap-
propriate pleasure adds definiteness to each act, and so
makes it better and more continuous, while an alien plea-
sure of any kind mars and destroys it, it is clear that
pleasures must differ very widely from one another. In-
deed, an alien pleasure produces upon any act much the
same effect as does its special and appropriate pain. For
it is by its own special and appropriate pain that each
act is destroyed. If, for example, a man ceases to take
pleasure in writing, or in casting up accounts, and begins
to feel pain in doing so, he then ceases, as the case may
be, either to write or to cast up his accounts, inasmuch as
the act has become painful to him. In a word, its own
special pleasure produces upon each act a result exactly
contrary to that which is produced by its special pain.
(By special,' or 'appropriate,' are, of course, to be un-
derstood those pleasures and pains which not only accom-
pany the act, but are directly and essentially its effect.)
Whereas, any alien pleasure produces, as we have said,
exactly the same result as does the special pain; for, like
the special pain, it destroys the act, although it does not
destroy it in the same way. Now, inasmuch as our acts
X
306
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
differ from one another-some of them being good, others
bad, some of them choiceworthy, others to be shunned,
and yet others again indifferent,-it results that our plea-
sures will follow a similar rule, since each act has a special
pleasure of its own. Thus, then, the pleasure which fol-
lows upon, and which is appropriate to a good act, will
itself be good, while that which follows upon a disgraceful
act will be bad; exactly as desire for a noble object is
(198.) praiseworthy, | while desire for a disgraceful object is
culpable. Moreover, there is more affinity between the
act and the pleasure which is bound up with it, than
there is between the act and the impulse from which it
results. Impulse is distinct from action in two ways: in
time it is antecedent to it; in its nature it is less perfect.
and final. But the pleasure is in time coincident with
the act, and in its own nature is so incapable of any dis-
tinction from it, as to render it open to question whether
pleasure and action ought not to be identified. We must
not, however, upon this account, identify pleasure with
thought or with perception. For this we have no war-
rant. It is only because the two are, as a matter of fact,
inseparable, that they have been held by some to be abso-
lutely identical. Thus, then, exactly as our acts can be
distinguished from one another, so too can our pleasures.
Now, sight can be distinguished from touch by its purity,
as also can hearing and smell from taste. And, similarly,
the pleasures which are consequent upon our acts can be
distinguished from one another;—the pleasures, that is to
say, of the intellect can be distinguished from these, the
pleasures of sense; and in each of these two classes,
again, the particular pleasures can be distinguished from
one another. And, again, exactly as each living thing
has its own peculiar vital functions, so, too, it has its own
peculiar pleasure, which accompanies their manifestation.
A consideration of particular instances will make this evi-
}
307
CHAP. V.]
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
L
•
dent; for the pleasure of a horse is one, and that of a
hound is another, and that of a man is yet another; for,
as says Heraclitus, an ass will sooner a bottle of hay
than all your gold;' for asses take more pleasure in pro-
vender than in gold. Thus, then, where beings are dis-
tinct from one another in kind, their pleasures will also
be distinct in kind. And from this it ought to follow that
the various pleasures of the same being ought not to
differ from one another. But yet, in the case of men at
any rate, there is no small difference between the various
pleasures. For the same thing will gratify some men,
and will annoy others; and will to some be grievous and
hateful, and to others pleasant and dear. Of things
sweet, for instance, this rule clearly holds good; for that
which seems sweet to him who is in a fever, will no more
seem sweet to him who is in health, than will that which
seems warm to him who has lost his strength, seem such
to him who is in sound condition; and of many other
things a similar rule holds good. And hence it follows.
that, in all such cases, the standard of reference must be
that judgment at which he arrives whose condition,
whether of mind or of body, is sound. If, then, this be
true, as it is held to be,-if, that is to say, the standard
in each case is to be the highest possible excellence or
virtue, or, in other words, that judgment which the good
man, as such, forms,-then it will follow that those alone
will be pleasures which the good man holds to be such,
and those things alone will be pleasant in which he takes
delight. Nor need we wonder that the things which
he scorns may yet seem to others to be pleasant; for
many are the ways in which human nature can be ruined
and marred. Such things, then, as these are not really
pleasant, but only seem to be such to men who are of this
(199.) kind, and in this condition. And, hence it is clear that
such pleasures as are confessedly disgraceful must not be
x 2
308
[BOOK X.
TIIE NICOMACHEAN
6.
allowed to be pleasures at all, except in the judgment of
those whose nature is thus depraved. And so, among
those pleasures that are held to be good, what or which
are we to say is peculiarly the pleasure of man? Evi-
dently man's acts must be our criterion, for it is upon his
acts that his pleasures are consequent. Whether, then,
human perfection and blessedness manifest itself in some
one energy, or whether it manifest itself in more than
one, those pleasures alone which perfect the acts in which
it manifests itself, have any claim to the distinctive title
of the pleasure of man; while all other pleasures, exactly
as the acts upon which they follow, have to this title but
a secondary and, indeed, almost a fractional claim.
We have now treated of the various forms of virtue,
and of the different kinds of friendship, and of pleasure;
and it only remains that we should give a sketch of hap-
piness, inasmuch as we make it the end and consumma-
tion of all things human. A recapitulation of our previous.
statements will serve to abbreviate our discussion. That
happiness is something more than a mere permanent state
or condition of the mind, we have already said; for, in that
case, he might enjoy it who passed his days in a perpetual
sleep, living the life of a mere plant; as might he who suf-
fered the heaviest possible misfortunes. Since, then, we
cannot admit this supposition, and must, consequently, hold
that happiness, as has been said before, essentially consists.
in some form of activity; and since some among our activi-
ties are said to be necessary,' inasmuch as they are
choiceworthy for the sake of something beyond them-
selves, whilst others are absolutely good and choiceworthy
for their own sakes; it evidently follows that happiness
must be placed in the class of acts which are good in
themselves, and not of those which are only good as lead-
ing to something else. For happiness stands in need of
perfection, but is in itself abso-
6
nothing to complete its
CHAP. VI.]
309
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
lutely all-sufficient. Now, an act is choiceworthy in itself
when, beyond the action itself, nothing is looked for from
the doing of it. And to this definition it would seem
that all virtuous acts correspond; for, to do what is noble.
and good is a thing which is choiceworthy in and by itself.
And the same holds good of all those recreations from which
pleasure is derived, and which cannot possibly be pursued
for the sake of their results, inasmuch as the pursuit of
them leads a man to neglect his person and his property,
and so really does him more harm than good. It is to
pursuits of this latter kind that the majority of those who
are reputed happy betake themselves; and hence it is
that those who have a pleasant adroitness in such amuse-
ments are held in high favour at the courts of tyrants;
for they lay themselves out to yield pleasure to their lord
(200.) after his heart's desire, and a tyrant needs courtiers of
this kind. Thus, then, these things are fancied to be
constituents of happiness, because those who are in high
power spend their leisure in them. But, it would seem
that we must not argue from the example of such men.
For it is virtue and reason from which good acts proceed,
and it is not high power that constitutes virtue and reason.
Nor does it follow that, because those who have never
tasted pure pleasure, such as becomes a free man, betake
themselves to the pleasures of the body, we are on that
account to hold that these latter are the more choice
worthy. For, even children believe that those things
which are held in honour by themselves are the noblest
of all goods. It is, indeed, but reasonable to believe
that, exactly as that which is held in honour by a child is
one, and that which is held in honour by a man is another,
so, too, that which is held in honour by the bad is one,
and that which is held in honour by the good is another.
We must remember, also, what has so often been said
before, that that which is really precious and pleasant is
310
[BOOK X.
THIE NICOMACHEAN
that which approves itself as such to the good man. And
from all this it follows, that to each man those acts will
be most choiceworthy which follow from, and correspond
with his character; and to the good man, consequently,
acts of virtue. And, hence it follows, that happiness does
not consist in mere amusement. For it is inconceivable
that amusement should be the end and consummation of
everything, and that a man should endure a lifetime of
labour and suffering, with nothing higher than amusement
in view. And this would be the case, were happiness
identical with mere amusement. For there is, indeed,
nothing whatever upon earth which we do not choose for
the sake of something else beyond itself, with the one.
exception of happiness-happiness being the one end of
all things else. Now, that all earnestness and toil should
tend to no higher end than mere amusement, is a view of
life which is worse than childish, and worthy only of a fool.
But the saying of Anacharsis, 'play makes us fit for work,'
would seem to be well spoken; for it would seem that
amusement is a species of rest, and that men stand in
need of rest, inasmuch as continuous exertion is impos-
sible. And, hence, rest cannot be an end in itself, inas-
much as it is only sought with a view to subsequent
action. Now, the life of happiness is a life of virtue, and
is, consequently, an earnest life, consisting in something
more than mere amusement. We are agreed that earnest-
ness is better than is merriment and amusement; and
that, the better be the faculty, and the better the man,
the more earnest always, and the more upright will be
the acts. And, the better be the man, the higher will be
his acts, and, consequently, the happier. Of mere bodily
pleasure there is no one but can take his fill, the slave
equally with the best of men. But, that a slave has any
portion in happiness, no one grants, any more than in the
life of a free man and a citizen. It is not in pursuits of
CHAP. VII.]
311
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
this kind that happiness consists, but, as has been said
201.) before, in acts of virtue.
7.
Since, then, happiness consists in an activity wherein
virtue is consciously manifested, it follows, as a matter of
course, that the virtue thus manifested will be the highest
which we possess; or that, in other words, it will consti-
tute the highest excellence of the noblest of our faculties.
Whether, then, this be our reason, or whether it be a
something else, which, in the course of nature, seems to
rule in us, and to take the lead, and to occupy itself with
the consideration of what is noble and divine, either as
being a something absolutely divine in itself, or as being
the most divine element in man; the activity in which
this part of ourselves so manifests itself that the essential
conditions of its own special excellence are fulfilled, will
constitute finally perfect happiness. That this activity
will consist in the contemplation of abstract truth, we have
already said; and it would seem that this is accordant
with what we have already said, and also with the truth.
For, in the first place, this activity will be the highest
which is possible; inasmuch as reason is the highest of our
faculties, and the objects upon which reason exercises
itself are the highest of all objects of thought. And, in
the second place, it is the most continuous; inasmuch as,
of all our acts, the exercise of the pure reason can be
the most continuously carried on. We are, moreover,
agreed that in all happiness pleasure is an essential ele-
ment; and, of all those acts in which any human excel-
lence whatsoever is manifested, philosophic speculation
upon abstract truth is confessedly the most pleasant.
Clear it certainly is that philosophy possesses pleasures of
its own, wonderful for their purity and for their certainty;
and it is but reasonable to suppose that, for those who are
already possessed of the truth, the pursuit of speculation
has greater pleasures than it has for those who are still
312
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
'
inquirers. Fourthly, it is to the act of philosophic specu-
lation that what is called all-sufficiency' most especially
belongs. Of the bare necessaries of life, the philosopher
and the just man, and all others, stand in equal need.
But, after that life has been adequately equipped with all
that is absolutely necessary, the just man still stands in
further need of persons towards whom, and in conjunc-
tion with whom, he can act justly; and of the temperate
man, and of the brave man, and indeed of all those in
whom any moral virtue manifests itself, a similar rule.
hold's good. Whereas the philosopher can exercise himself
in speculation, even although absolutely secluded from the
society of others; and, indeed, the wiser he is the more.
easy for him will this be. For, although, perhaps, he may
be the better for having fellow-workers in his specula-
tions, yet none the less he, of all men, is absolutely in
himself the most all-sufficient. Fifthly, it would seem
that, of all our acts, philosophic speculation is the only
one which is loved absolutely for itself, and quite inde-
pendently of its results. For the contemplation of ab-
stract truth yields no result whatever beyond and besides.
itself; whereas every moral action yields a something,
either more less, over and above the mere act.
Then,
again, it would seem that happiness is the very antithesis
of a busy life, in that it is compatible with perfect leisure.
(202.) And it is with such | leisure in view that a busy life is
always led, exactly as war is only waged for the sake of
ultimate peace. Now, the virtues of practical life manifest
themselves in the field of politics or of war, and the acts
which they involve are incompatible with perfect leisure.
Of war, indeed, this holds absolutely true; for no one
ever chooses war for its own sake, or for its own sake
prepares a war. A man would, indeed, seem to have an
absolute thirst for blood, were he to make enemies of his
friends, that battle and bloodshed might ensue. Equally
CHAP. VII.]
313
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
incompatible with leisure are the pursuits of the politician,
their object being something more than the mere pleasure
of an active political life, regarded as an end in itself.
The ultimate object of the politician is to secure for him-
self and for his fellow-citizens power and honour, or, in a
word, happiness; and, that happiness is not to be iden-
tified with an active political life, we have shown by the
fact, that in our search for each we invariably regard it
as a something distinct from the other. Thus, then, of
all virtuous action, that which has political life or war for
its field is foremost in beauty and in dignity, but still is
none the less incompatible with perfect leisure, in that it
has a further end beyond itself at which it aims, and is
not choiceworthy for its own sake. Whereas the activity
of the intellect, manifesting itself in pure speculation, is
in itself pre-eminently earnest and good, and has no further
end beyond itself at which to aim. It has, moreover, a
pleasure of its own, and that, too, a pleasure by which it
is itself intensified. And, in a word, in this activity alone
is to be found absolute all-sufficiency, and, along with it,
the possibility of perfect leisure, and an entire absence of
care, in so far as is compatible with the conditions of human
life, and, indeed, each and all of the essentials of perfect
blessedness. And hence it follows, that it is in this activity
that perfectly final human happiness consists, if only the
one condition be fulfilled of a sufficient length of life;
for in happiness there must be nothing insufficient. More-
over, a life thus passed will be higher than human; for it
will not be in so far as he is human that a man will lead
it, but in so far as he has in him a divine element. And,
by as much as this is higher than is that compound part
of our organisation into which material factors enter, by
so much is that activity in which it is manifested higher
than is that of any other virtue whatsoever. Since, in
other words, the reason is a divine thing if contrasted
314.
[BOOK X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
with human nature as a whole, the life of reason will
also be divine, as contrasted with the ordinary and human
life. Nor ought we to follow the advice of the old saw,
'let not man meddle with great matters which are too
high for him,' but rather, so far as in us lies, to act as if
immortality were our share, by seeking in everything
(203.) that we do to lead a life in conformity with that part of
us which is highest and best. For, although physically
it may be insignificant, it is none the less far more power-
ful and far more precious than is any other part of our
nature. In this part, moreover, it is that the true self of
each one of us would seem to have its place, since a man's
self is identical with that which is supreme in him, and
most precious. Strange, indeed, would it be, were a man
to choose, not the life which is peculiarly his own, but the
life of some other kind of being. And here, again, we
may apply what we have said before. For that is, for
each being, best and most pleasant, in which its nature
finds for itself a fit expression. Sweetest, then, and best
of all things for man is the life of reason; since reason it
is that constitutes the essence of humanity. And thus
the happiest of all lives is the life philosophic.
8.
Happy in but a secondary sense is that life in which
all other virtue finds its manifestation; inasmuch as its
activities are, at the best, but human. For justice, and
bravery, and all other virtue, finds its field in the mutual
relations of man with man,-in contract, that is to say,
and in matters of business, and in the various other
actions which life involves, and also in the regulation of
the emotions,--in each and all of which our conduct has
to be carefully modified, as circumstances demand. Now,
all such matters as these are in their nature clearly human.
In some cases, indeed, we would seem to be concerned
with a material result of our physical organisation; and
it would appear as if moral virtue were very closely akin
CHAP. VIII.] ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
315
to the purely physical emotions. Now, between prudence
and moral virtue there is a reciprocal connection; for the
principles which prudence involves must be in concordance
with moral virtue, and the standard of moral virtue must
be determined by prudence. The moral virtues, inas-
much as between them and the physical emotions there is
an inseparable connection, find their field in the compo-
site part of our nature; and any excellence of which this
part may be capable never rises above a human standard.
And hence it follows, that the life in which such virtue
finds its expression, and the happiness which is its result,
will not transcend the ordinary limits of humanity. But
that happiness which results from the exercise of the rea-
son, stands absolutely isolated from all human matters.
We make this statement provisionally, inasmuch as an
exact definition of our conception would entail greater
labour than is practically necessary for our present pur-
pose. Of all external equipment such happiness stands
but little in need, or certainly less than does that happi-
ness which is the result of moral virtue. As for the ab-
solute necessaries of life, we may grant that these are, in
either case, equally indispensable, notwithstanding that
the statesman does, as a matter of fact, busy himself about
his bodily welfare, and about all such other matters, more
than does the philosopher. Herein, however, the differ-
ence will be but unimportant. But, when we come to
contrast the distinctive activities of moral with those of
intellectual virtue, we shall find between them a wide.
difference. For, if the liberal man is to do liberal acts,
204.) he will stand in need of money; | and the just man will
stand in the same need, if he is to return the full value of
that which he has received. For our intentions, how-
ever good, are known to ourselves alone, and even the
unjust make a pretence of wishing to act fairly. And,
similarly, the brave man requires physical strength, if he
316
[BOOK X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
is to display his bravery in action in its full glory. And
the temperate man, too, requires opportunity for licence.
For how can temperance, or, indeed, any other moral
virtue, show itself, unless fitting opportunity be given?
It has, indeed, been disputed whether it is in our purpose,
or whether it is rather in our actions, that virtue most
distinctively manifests itself; for, as a matter of fact, it
shows itself in each. It is, of course, self-evident that
perfect virtue implies both a perfect purpose, and also
perfect acts. Now, if our acts are to be perfect, many
purely external conditions must be fulfilled; and these
will be all the more numerous in proportion as our acts
are the grander and fairer. Whereas, not only does the
philosopher stand in no need of any such conditions for
the perfect exercise of speculation, but rather, if anything,
finds all external circumstances a hindrance to thought.
In so far, however, as he is a man, and is consequently
obliged to live in the society of his fellows, acts of moral
virtue are his only choice. And, consequently, for his life
as man, these external conditions of which we have spoken
are essential. There is, moreover, yet a further proof that
the perfection of happiness consists in the exercise of phi-
losophic thought. Our conception of the Gods is that
they lead a blessed and a happy life; and, this being so,
what sort of moral action is it fitting to ascribe to them?
Are their acts those of justice? Surely it is absurd to
conceive a God as making a bargain, or restoring a de-
posit, or engaging in any other form of contract.
their acts, then, those of bravery, and do they withstand
that which is terrible, and engage in great risks, because
it is noble to do so? Or, do they delight in liberal acts?
And, if so, whom have they to whom to give? And how
absurd it is to conceive a currency, or any similar medium
of exchange, as in use among them. And, as for tem-
perance, what meaning can possibly be attached to the
Are
་།
CHAP. VIII.]
317
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE
T
conception of divine temperance? The grossness of such
praise is evident, when we remember that a God cannot
have evil passions. In short, were the enumeration to be
completed, it would be evident that moral virtue of any
kind is, for the Gods, a something contemptible and in-
significant. But yet, we all hold that they enjoy a life
of some sort, and, consequently, that they have activities.
of their own. For it cannot be supposed that the divine.
existence consists, like that of Endymion, in a perpetual
sleep. And, where moral action, and with it, à fortiori,
artistic production is out of the question, the only pos-
sible conception of life is that it should consist in philo-
sophic thought. And hence it follows that the divine
life, in all its exceeding blessedness, will consist in the
exercise of philosophic thought. And, of all human
(205.) activities whatsoever, that will be the happiest which is |
most akin to the divine. In illustration of this, it may
be observed that no other living thing, save man alone,
has any share in happiness such as this: inasmuch as
there is no living thing, save man, to which all participa-
tion in any activity of this kind has not been absolutely
denied. And so, for the Gods, their whole life is blessed :
for man, his life is blessed only in so far as it approxi-
mates to the perpetual activity of the divine thought.
But of brute beasts no one is happy, since there is no
one which in any way participates in philosophic thought.
Thus, then, as far as philosophic thought enters into our
life, so far also does happiness, and the more we think the
happier we shall be, and that, not because thinking in-
directly leads to happiness, but rather because the two
are essentially convertible. Indeed, the act of thought is,
like happiness, a something that, in itself, and of its own
nature, calls for honour. And, from all this it follows,
that happiness will consist in some form of philosophic
thought.
318
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
But nevertheless, in so far as he is human, the happy
man will need external prosperity. Human nature is
not in itself sufficient for the continuous exercise of phi-
losophic speculation, unless, in addition, we enjoy perfect.
bodily health, and have sufficient means for actual main-
tenance, and, indeed, for all the other requisites of our
material welfare. And yet, we must not hold, that,-
because it is impossible to be blessed without a certain
amount of external prosperity,--therefore he who is to
be happy will stand in need of much good fortune, and
of great. It is not superfluity such as this that consti-
tutes all-sufficiency, nor is such superfluity necessary even
for moral action. One need not be lord of both land and
sea,' to achieve noble deeds,-nay, more, for virtuous
action, but moderate good fortune is all that is required.
And to this plain witness is borne by facts; for it would
seem that, for private persons, just and fair dealing is
fully as easy a task as it is for rulers, if not perhaps even
easier. Such moderate good fortune is, then, all that is
required; inasmuch as his life will be happy whose acts
are those of virtue. Nor was the definition of happiness.
which Solon gave inapt, when he said that the happy man
was 'he whose equipment of external goods was moderate,
and whose actions were '-so, at least, he held-the
noblest possible, and whose life had been temperately
ordered:' for those whose possessions are moderate can,
no less than others, act as is right. It would seem, more-
over, that the conception which Anaxagoras formed of
the happy man did not imply the possession of wealth, or
of great political power. For he said that he should not
wonder were the many to regard his own conception of
happiness as fantastic and untenable, inasmuch as they are
entirely led by external circumstances, which are, indeed,
the only things that attract their notice. And, hence we
(206.) can see that, with our own definition of happiness, the |
i
CHAP. IX.]
319
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
9.
Such confirmation has, of
But still, in all questions
opinions of the wise agree.
course, a weight of its own.
that have any practical import, the test of truth is to be
found in facts, or, in other words, in the lives of men,-
the appeal to which is ultimate and final. And so we
must consider all that we have said, testing it by facts,
and by the actual practice of human life,—with which,
if our speculations agree, they may be accepted as true;
-if they disagree, they must be held to be mere empty
theories. Lastly, he who exercises his reason, and who
tends it with all care, and who is of sound mind and
healthy judgment, he would seem of all men to be
dearest to the Gods. For, if the Gods in any way con-
cern themselves with human affairs, as is, indeed, held to
be the case, it is but reasonable to suppose that they
should take pleasure in that which is of all things the
highest and the most akin to the divine nature,—that is
to say, the reason,-and that, to those who give all their
love to this, and who hold it in the highest honour, they
should make some return of kindness; on the ground
that such men bestow their care upon that which they
themselves hold dear, and that they act rightly herein,
and nobly. Now, that it is of the philosopher that all
this most especially holds true, is almost self-evident.
And, therefore, the philosopher is, of all men, the dearest
to the Gods. And, hence it is but reasonable to hold that
he is, of all men, the happiest. So that, even from this
point of view, the philosopher has, of all men, the best
claim to be considered happy.
Thus, then, we have given an adequate sketch of hap-
piness, and of the various virtues, and of friendship, and of
pleasure. But yet we must not, on this account, hold that
our original purpose is fulfilled ; but rather that, as we have
said all along, the real end of all speculation upon human
action is not so much that we should have a theoretic
320
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
6
<
acquaintance with, and knowledge of, moral rules, as that
we should actually carry them into effect. It is not
enough, in other words, that we should be students of
moral philosophy, and should know in what it is that virtue
really consists; but we must, further, endeavour to acquire
for ourselves a habit of virtue, either by the practice of
virtuous acts, or else by use of other means—if such
there be-by which to become virtuous. Now, if mere
moral precepts were, in themselves, sufficient to make
men good, then many,' as Theognis says, and great
would their guerdons justly have been,' and our only
task would be to set them forth in sufficient store.
But, as a matter of fact, it is evident that such maxims
have indeed sufficient strength to encourage and stimu-
late to the practice of virtue such among the young as
are already liberally-minded; and that, if a man's nature.
be from the first well-bred and full of a true love for
honour, they can render it amenable to the influence of
virtue. But, for most men, mere precept is powerless to
dispose them to noble conduct. For their nature is such,
that they are not ruled by a proper sense of shame, but
(207.) only by fear, and do not abstain from vice because of |
the disgrace which attaches to it, but because of the
punishments which its practice involves. For their life
is ruled by the passion of the moment, and their practice
is to pursue their own peculiar pleasures, and the means
thereunto, and to avoid those pains that are the contraries
thereof; while, of what is truly noble, and really pleasant,
they have no thought, nor have they ever tasted its sweet-
ness. And, what precepts can possibly reharmonise the
discord of such a life as this? If not absolutely impos-
sible, it is certainly more than difficult, for any mere
arguments to efface old and deeply ingrained stains of
character. Nay, we ought, perhaps, to be well content
if, even when possessed of all the means which are ordi-
CHAP. IX.]
321
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
narily held to lead to an upright life, some share of virtue
may be our lot. Now, about the formation of virtue
there are three distinct opinions. For some hold that it
comes by nature; others, that it is the result of habitua-
tion and practice; and others, again, that it can be taught,
in the same way as can any purely intellectual matter.
Now, that which comes by nature is clearly not in our
own power, but rather comes by some divine dispensation,
as a free gift to those who are fortunate in the highest
sense of the word. And, on the other hand, it would
seem as if mere precept and instruction were not of equal
efficacy in all cases alike, but only in those where the
soul of the listener has been so trained by habituation in
the practice of good acts, as to take pleasure in what is
noble, and to loathe what is wrong,-exactly as the earth
must be broken up before it can give nourishment to the
seed. For he whose life is ruled by the passion of the
moment, would neither listen to precepts exhorting him
to abstain from vice, nor, if he listened, would he under-
stand. And, when a man's state is such as this, how can
any arguments work a change in him? It would, indeed,
seem as if passion were deaf to precept, and yielded to
nothing but force alone. Thus, then, we can see that
moral teaching presupposes a character in the pupil
already so far akin to virtue as to love what is noble,
and to resent that which brings disgrace. Now, for a
man to meet with right guidance towards virtue from
his youth up, is no easy matter, unless his education be
guided by laws which have this same virtue for their type.
For, to lead a life of temperance and of endurance is for
most men no pleasant task, and least of all is it so for the
young. And, hence we can see, that the mode of nurture
for the young, and the pursuits which they are to practise,
ought to be regulated by law; for nothing will ever be griev-
ous which custom has made familir. Nor is it, perhaps,
Y
322
[Book X.
THE NICOMACIIEAN
sufficient that, when young, we should meet with fit nurture
and right care. For, when we have reached man's estate,
we must still practise the lessons of our childhood, and ac-
custom ourselves to the same pursuits; and we shall, con-
sequently, still need laws to regulate these matters, and,
indeed, to prescribe the entire course of our life as a
whole. For the nature of most men is such that they
obey restraint rather than reason, and do not so much.
love honour as stand in fear of punishment. And hence.
(208.) it is that some have | held it to be the duty of the legis-
lator to exhort men to the practice of virtue, and to preach
to them the pursuit of what is noble for its own sake.
For, it is said, those who have been previously trained
in right and good habits will then be obedient to such in-
struction; but, when men are stiff-necked and of evil
nature, then the legislator must lay upon them pains and
penalties; and, if there be any one past all hope of re-
demption, must put away such an one from out of the
State. For he who is of upright nature, and whose life.
is ruled by the standard of what is noble, will be obe-
dient to the wisdom of his teachers; but the wicked, who
is ever craving for pleasure, must suffer punishments and
pains, exactly as we curb a beast of burden which has no
understanding. And hence, too, it is said that punish-
ment ought to consist of those particular forms of pain
that are the contraries of the pleasures which the wicked
love. It would seem, then, that, as has been already said,
he who is to be a good man must first receive proper nur-
ture, and be trained in good habits; and must then, in
accordance with this previous training, lead a life devoted
to the practice of virtue, and must not, either against his
will, or with his will, ever do any disgraceful act: and
that all this is only possible for those whose life is ordered
by some rational system, and organised in accordance
with a perfect moral code, enforced by a sanction of suffi-
Y
CHAP. IX.]
323
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
1
cient strength. But, to secure this, the parental rule has not
sufficient strength, and power of compulsion,-nor, in-
deed, is the authority of any one man whatever sufficient
for such a purpose, unless he be an absolute monarch, or
possess some such irresistible power. Whereas, the com-
mands of law carry with them a compulsory sanction of
their own, being, as it were, the dictates in which abstract
prudence and reason are embodied. And, moreover, where
our fellowman thwarts our impulses, we none the less
conceive a hatred for him, even although he do so with
right and justice upon his side; whereas, when the law
enjoins what is right, it addresses itself to us in abstract
commands, which consequently incur no odium. Lace-
dæmon, however, and one or two other States, are the only
instances in which the legislator appears to have con-
cerned himself about the nurture of the young, and the
mode of life of the citizens. For, in far the greater
number of States at present existing, all these matters.
have been overlooked, and each man lives as is right in
his own eyes, exercising over children and spouse' a
primitive and patriarchal sway,' like the one-eyed giant
in Homer. Now, of course, by far the best method of
education is that there should be a public system of train-
ing, conducted in accordance with moral principles, and
that we should be able to carry it into full effect. But,
inasmuch as education is neglected by the State, it be-
comes the duty of the individual to aid his own children
and friends in the pursuit of virtue, or, at least, to strive
his best to do so. And it would seem, from what we have
said, that the easiest mode for a man to effect this result
is that he should make himself master of the general
theory of legislation. For every system of State educa-
(209.) cation is controlled by a code of laws, and, where the
education in question is good, the code is approximately
perfect. Whether such a code be written or unwritten,
Y 2
324
[BOOK X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
and whether it be adapted to the training of a single in-
dividual or of many, would seem to be indifferent; as is
also the case in music, and in gymnastics, and, indeed, in
all the other practical branches of education. Thus then,
exactly as in a State law and custom are supreme, simi-
larly in the family we find paternal precept and the force
of habit; and these are rendered all the more efficacious
by the claims of relationship and of gratitude for past
services, the minds of children being from the very first.
naturally affectionate and submissive. There is, more-
over, a difference between private and public education,
which may be illustrated by the analogy of the practice
of medicine. As a general rule, a fever must be treated
by repose and low diet, but still to this rule there may
none the less be individual exceptions. And, similarly,
a professor of boxing does not teach all his pupils to fight
in one and the same style. Thus, then, it would seem
that, to secure individual perfection, private attention is
necessary; for, by it, the individual pupil will find his
peculiar necessities met with greater certainty. But yet,
he who is to be successful in his treatment of individual
cases,—whether he be a physician, or whether a trainer,
or whatever it be that he professes,-must none the less
have a thorough acquaintance with those general prin-
ciples, the formula for which is, in all cases whatsoever,'
or, more definitely, in all cases whatsoever of such, or of
such a nature.' For the ordinary conception of science.
is, that it is concerned with general laws, and the ordinary
conception herein is also the correct. Not but that a man
may, perhaps, occasionally be successful in his treatment of
a particular case, even although he be absolutely ignorant
of scientific rules, provided that he have an accurate, al-
though empiric, knowledge of what will be the effect of each
of his specifics; exactly as we often see persons who can
treat their own ailments with the most perfect success,
(
CHAP. IX.]
325
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
although absolutely unable to prescribe for others. But,
in spite of all this, he who really wishes to be a master of
his own especial craft, and to grasp it in its entirety, must
work his way to the highest general conceptions, and, in
so far as they admit of determinate knowledge, must
make himself master of them. For it is with general
conceptions, as we have already said, that all science is
concerned. If, then, we are to hold that good laws make
good men, it will follow that he who desires to improve
others, whether many or few, by his own personal super-
vision, must do his best to make himself a master of the
general theory of legislation. For, to take the first per-
son who may offer himself, or be offered by others, as a
pupil, and to mould him to virtue, is a task by no means
in the power of the first comer, but rather of him alone
who has perfect knowledge;-as holds good, also, in the
(210.) case of medicine, and, indeed, of everything | else which
requires for its successful performance attention and pru-
dence. And, from this it follows, that our next inquiry
must be, from whom can the theory of legislation be
learnt, and in what manner? And, to this the right
answer would seem to be, that we must study it exactly
as we study anything else—or, in other words, that we
must learn it from politicians. To teach it ought cer-
tainly to be their task, if we were right when we said
that the theory of legislation was one of the four subdi-
visions of political science. But, then, we must remember
that there is a clear difference between political science
and all other sciences and arts whatsoever. For, in all
the other sciences, as in medicine, for instance, and in
painting, we find that the same persons both teach the
general theory of the science, and also practise it as a
profession. But, in the case of political science, although
the Sophists profess to teach it in theory, yet no one of
them is actually engaged in its practice,-politics, as a
326
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN
profession, being in the hands of statesmen. And it would
seem that statesmen are not guided in their practice by
any knowledge of scientific principles, but rather that
they have some special aptitude for the subject, combined
with a knowledge of certain empiric rules. We certainly
never find a statesman writing a treatise upon political
philosophy, or delivering lectures upon his special subject,
although it would seem that either of these were a nobler
task than to compose harangues by which to convince a
jury, or to persuade a public meeting. Nor is there any
instance on record of a statesman having, by his teaching,
made a statesman of his own son, or of any of his friends.
And yet it is but reasonable to suppose that they would
have done so, had it been in their power; for there is no
nobler legacy which they could have bequeathed to their
State, nor is there any heirloom which they would have
preferred to the possession of political power, either for
themselves, or for those whom they held most dear. And
yet it must none the less be admitted that politics has in
it a large empirical element. Were not this the case,
familiarity with office would not make men statesmen.
And hence it would seem that those who desire a tho-
rough knowledge of political philosophy need some ac-
quaintance with the actual practice of States. As for
those among the Sophists who profess political philosophy,
the last thing that one would say of them would be that they
teach that which they profess. As a matter of fact, they
have not the least knowledge, either as to what the science.
is, or with what it is concerned. Else they would never
have identified it with rhetoric, or have degraded it by
subordinating it to rhetoric; nor would they have held
that legislation is an easy task, if one first make a collec-
tion of the most famous laws; for that, out of such a
collection, one can, of course, select the best;-as if such
a selection did not imply considerable power of apprecia-
CHAP. IX.]
327
ETHICS OF ARISTOTLE.
tion, and as if a correct judgment in such matters were
not, as is a correct judgment in music, the most difficult
of tasks. For, in each and all of the arts, it is those alone
who have adequate experience, who can form a correct
judgment upon the special merits of any particular piece
of work, or who can properly understand by what means
and how it is produced, and what combinations of detail
(211.) are harmonious, and so allowable. Whereas, those who
|
are devoid of such experience must rest content, if they
have sufficient power of appreciation to keep them from
overlooking the merits, or, as the case may be, the de-
merits of the work as a whole. All this one can see
clearly in the case of painting. Now, laws stand in the
same relation to political science, as do the products of
art to art itself. How, then, is it possible, by the mere
inspection of various laws, for a man to acquire a compe-
tent knowledge of the theory of legislation, or a power of
discerning which laws are the best? No man ever yet
became a competent physician by the study of medical
treatises. And yet, those who write upon medicine do
not confine themselves to giving a list of the drugs em-
ployed, but, in addition, make some attempt to classify
the various diseases, and to assign to each its specific
remedy, and to give rules by which it may be treated
with success. And all this is, of course, very useful to
those who already possess some knowledge of medicine,
but is absolutely useless for those who have no such know-
ledge. And hence it would seem that, for those who can
come to an opinion of their own, and who can judge what
has been well ruled, and what has not, and what is con-
sistent, and what is inconsistent, it is a very useful thing
to study such collections of laws and of constitutions; but
that, if a man apply himself to such a study with his mind
unprepared by any previous training, it will be impossi-
ble for him to form a correct judgment upon that which
.
328
[Book X.
THE NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, ETC.
he reads, unless it be by haphazard,—the most that he
can hope to acquire being a certain increased power of
appreciation.
Since, then, the subject of legislation is one which
previous writers have omitted to sufficiently investigate,
it were best, perhaps, that we should enter upon the con-
sideration of it ourselves, and that, along with it, we
should discuss the general theory of government; and so,
as far as in us lies, complete that branch of philosophy the
object of which is man. And, consequently, we will first
attempt to examine in detail all such particular state-
ments of our predecessors as may commend themselves.
And we will then proceed to frame a collection of consti-
tutions, and to derive therefrom certain general rules as
to what are the causes by which a State is preserved, and
what are the causes by which it is destroyed; and, fur-
ther, to determine what modification must be made in
these rules, so that they may be applicable to each par-
ticular form of constitution. And we will then consider
for what reasons it is that some governments are success-
ful, and others are not. For, after such an investigation,
we shall be in a better position to determine, not only
what is the absolutely best form of government, but also in
what manner each particular form of government must be
ordered, and of what laws and of what customs it must
make use.
Here, then, we leave Ethics, and commence
the consideration of Politics.
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Smith's Air and Rain. 8vo. 24s.
The Public Schools Atlas of Ancient Geography. Imperial 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Atlas of Modern Geography. Imperial 8vo. 5s.
London, LONGMANS & CO.
6
Co
General Lists of New Works.
NATURAL HISTORY & POPULAR SCIENCE.
Arnott's Elements of Physics or Natural Philosophy. Crown 8vo. 12s. 6d.
Brande's Dictionary of Science, Literature, and Art. 3 vols. medium 8vo. 638.
Buckton's Town and Window Gardening. Crown 8vo. 2s.
Decaisne and Le Maout's General System of Botany. Imperial 8vo. 31s. 6d.
Dixon's Rural Bird Life. Crown 8vo. Illustrations, 7s. 6d.
Ganot's Elementary Treatise on Physics, by Atkinson. Large crown 8vo. 15s.
Natural Philosophy, by Atkinson. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Gore's Art of Scientific Discovery. Crown 8vo. 15s.
Grove's Correlation of Physical Forces.
Hartwig's Aerial World. 8vo. 10s. Gd.
Sea and its Living Wonders.
8vo. 15s.
Polar World. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
8vo. 10s. 6d.
Subterranean World. 8vo. 10s. 6d. Tropical World. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Haughton's Principles of Animal Mechanics. 8vo. 21s.
Six Lectures on Physical Geography. Svo. 15s.
8vo. 8s. 6d.
8vo. 10s. Gd.
Heer's Primæval World of Switzerland. 2 vols. 8vo. 16s.
Helmholtz's Lectures on Scientific Subjects. 2 vols. cr. 8vo. 7s. 6d. each.
Helmholtz on the Sensations of Tone, by Ellis. 8vo. 36s.
Hullah's Lectures on the History of Modern Music.
Transition Period of Musical History.
Keller's Lake Dwellings of Switzerland, by Lee.
Kirby and Spence's Introduction to Entomology.
Lloyd's Treatise on Magnetism. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
2 vols. royal 8vo. 42s.
Crown 8vo. 5s.
on the Wave-Theory of Light. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Loudon's Encyclopædia of Plants. 8vo. 42s.
Lubbock on the Origin of Civilisation & Primitive Condition of Man. 8vo. 18s.
Macalister's Zoology and Morphology of Vertebrate Animals. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Nicols' Puzzle of Life. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.
Owen's Comparative Anatomy and Physiology of the Vertebrate Animals. 3 vols.
8vo. 73s. 6d.
Proctor's Light Science for Leisure Hours. 2 vols. crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. each.
Rivers's Orchard House. Sixteenth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s
Rose Amateur's Guide. Fep. 8vo. 4s. 6d.
Stanley's Familiar History of British Birds. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Text-Books of Science, Mechanical and Physical.
Abney's Photography, 3s. 6d.
Anderson's (Sir John) Strength of Materials, 3s. 6d.
Armstrong's Organic Chemistry, 3s. 6d.
Ball's Astronomy, 65.
Barry's Railway Appliances, 3s. 6d. Bloxam's Metals, 3s. 6d.
Goodeve's Eleinents of Mechanism, 3s. 6d.
Principles of Mechanics, 3s. 6d.
Gore's Electro-Metallurgy, 6s.
Griffin's Algebra and Trigonometry, 3s. 6d.
Jenkin's Electricity and Magnetism, 3s. 6d.
Maxwell's Theory of Heat, 3s. 6d.
Merrifield's Technical Arithmetic and Mensuration, 3s. 6d.
Miller's Inorganic Chemistry, 3s. 6d.
Preccc & Sivewright's Telegraphy, 3s. 6d.
Rutley's Study of Rocks, 4s. 6d.
Shelley's Workshop Appliances, 3s. Gd.
London, LONGMANS & CO.
General Lists of New Works.
7
Text-Books of Science-continued.
Thomé's Structural and Physiological Botany, 6s.
Thorpe's Quantitative Chemical Analysis, 4s. 6d.
Thorpe & Muir's Qualitative Analysis, 3s. 6d.
Tilden's Chemical Philosophy, 3s. 6d.
Unwin's Machine Design, 3s. 6d.
Watson's Plane and Solid Geometry, 3s. 6d.
Tyndall on Sound. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Contributions to Molecular Physics. 8vo. 163.
Fragments of Science. 2 vols. post 8vo. 16s.
Heat a Mode of Motion, Cth Edition, 13th Thousand. Crown 8vo. 12s.
Notes on Electrical Phenomena. Crown 8vo. 1s. sewed, 1s. 6d. cloth.
Notes of Lectures on Light. Crown 8vo. 1s. sewed, 1s. 6d. cloth.
Lectures on Light delivered in America. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Lessons in Electricity. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Crown 8vo. 14s.
Von Cotta on Rocks, by Lawrence. Post 8vo. 14s.
Woodward's Geology of England and Wales.
Wood's Bible Animals. With 112 Vignettes. 8vo. 14s.
Homes Without Hands. 8vo. 14s.
Insects at Home. With 700 Illustrations. 8vo. 14s.
Out of Doors. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
CHEMISTRY &
Insects Abroad. 8vo. 14s.
Strange Dwellings. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
PHYSIOLOGY.
Auerbach's Anthracen, translated by W. Crookes, F.R.S. 8vo. 12s.
Buckton's Health in the House, Lectures on Elementary Physiology.
Crookes's Handbook of Dyeing and Calico Printing. 8vo. 42s.
Select Methods in Chemical Analysis. Crown 8vo. 12s. 6d.
Kingzett's Animal Chemistry. 8vo. 18s.
Cr. 8vo. 2s.
History, Products and Processes of the Alkali Trade. 8vo. 12s.
Miller's Elements of Chemistry, Theoretical and Practical. 3 vols. 8vo. Part I.
Chemical Physics, 16s. Part II. Inorganic Chemistry, 24s. Part III. Organic
Chemistry, Section I. price 31s. 6d.
Thudichum's Annals of Chemical Medicine.
Vol. I. 8vo. 14s.
Tilden's Practical Chemistry. Fep. 8vo. 1s. 6d.
Watts's Dictionary of Chemistry. 7 vols. medium 8vo. £10. 16s. 6d.
Third Supplementary Volume, in Two Parts. PART I. 36s.
THE FINE ARTS & ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS.
Bewick's Select Fables of Esop and others. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. demy 8vo. 18s.
Doyle's Fairyland; Pictures from the Elf-World. Folio, 15s.
Dresser's Arts and Art Industries of Japan.
[In preparation.
Ingelow's Poems. Illustrated Edition. Fcp. 4to. Woodcuts, 21s.
Jameson's Sacred and Legendary Art. 6 vols. square crown 8vo.
Legends of the Madonna. 1 vol. 21s.
Monastic Orders. 1 vol. 21s.
Saints and Martyrs. 2 vols. 31s. 6d.
Saviour. Completed by Lady Eastlake. 2 vols. 42s.
Longman's Three Cathedrals Dedicated to St. Paul. Square crown 8vo. 21s.
Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. With 90 Illustrations. Fcp. 4to. 21s.
Macfarren's Lectures on Harmony. 8vo. 12s.
Miniature Edition of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. Imp. 16mo. 10s. 6d.
Moore's Irish Melodies. With 161 Plates by D. Maclise, R.A. Super-royal 8vo. 21s.
London, LONGMANS & CO.
8
General Lists of New Works.
Moore's Lalla Rookh, illustrated by Tenniel. Square crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Perry on Greek and Roman Sculpture. 8vo.
[In preparation.
THE USEFUL
USEFUL ARTS,
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Bourne's Catechism of the Steam Engine. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Examples of Steam, Air, and Gas Engines. 4to. 70s.
Handbook of the Steain Engine. Fcp. 8vo. 9s.
Recent Improvements in the Steam Engine. Fcp. 8vo. 68.
Treatise on the Steam Engine. 4to. 42s.
Cresy's Encyclopædia of Civil Engineering. 8vo. 25s.
Culley's Handbook of Practical Telegraphy. 8vo. 16s.
Eastlake's Household Taste in Furniture, &c.
Fairbairn's Useful Information for Engineers.
Square crown 8vo. 14s.
3 vols. crown 8vo. 31s. 6d.
Applications of Cast and Wrought Iron. 8vo. 16s.
Mills and Millwork. 1 vol. 8vo. 25s.
Gwilt's Encyclopædia of Architecture. 8vo. 52s. 6d.
Hobson's Amateur Mechanic's Practical Handbook. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Hoskold's Engineer's Valuing Assistant. 8vo. 31s. 6d.
Kerl's Metallurgy, adapted by Crookes and Röhrig. 3 vols. 8vo. £4. 19s.
Loudon's Encyclopædia of Agriculture. 8vo. 21s.
Gardening. Svo. 21s.
Mitchell's Manual of Practical Assaying. 8vo. 31s. 6d.
Northcott's Lathes and Turning. 8vo. 18s.
Payen's Industrial Chemistry Edited by B. H. Paul, Ph.D. 8vo. 42s.
Piesse's Art of Perfumery. Fourth Edition. Square crown 8vo. 21s.
Stoney's Theory of Strains in Girders. Royal 8vo. 36s.
Thomas on Coal, Mine-Gases and Ventilation. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Ure's Dictionary of Arts, Manufactures, & Mines. 4 vols. medium 8vo. £7. 7s.
Ville on Artificial Manures. By Crookes. 8vo. 21s.
RELIGIOUS & MORAL WORKS.
Abbey & Overton's English Church in the Eighteenth Century. 2 vols. 8vo. 36s.
Arnold's (Rev. Dr. Thomas) Sermous. 6 vols. crown 8vo. 5s. each.
Bishop Jeremy Taylor's Entire Works. With Life by Bishop Heber. Edited by
the Rev. C. P. Eden. 10 vols. 8vo. £5. 5s.
Boultbee's Commentary on the 39 Articles. Crown 8vo. 6s.
History of the Church of England, Pre-Reformation Period. 8vo. 15s.
Browne's (Bishop) Exposition of the 39 Articles. 8vo. 16s.
Bunsen's Angel-Messiah of Buddhists, &c. 8vo. 10s 6d.
Colenso's Lectures on the Pentateuch and the Moabite Stone. 8vo. 12s.
Colenso on the Pentateuch and Book of Joshua. Crown 8vo. 6s.
PART VII. completion of the larger Work. 8vo. 24s.
Conder's Handbook of the Bible. Post 8vo. 7s. Gd.
Conybeare & Howson's Life and Letters of St. Paul :-
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Student's Edition, revised and condensed, with 46 Illustrations and Maps.
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General Lists of New Works.
9
Drummond's Jewish Messiah. 8vo. 15s.
Ellicott's (Bishop) Commentary on St. Paul's Epistles. 8vo. Galatians, 8s. 6d.
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Philemon, 10s. 6d. Thessalonians, 7s. 6d.
Ellicott's Lectures on the Life of our Lord. 8vo. 12s.
Ewald's History of Israel, translated by Carpenter. 5 vols. 8vo. 63s.
Antiquities of Israel, translated by Solly. 8vo. 12s. 6d.
Gospel (The) for the Nineteenth Century. 4th Edition. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Hopkins's Christ the Consoler. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Jukes's Types of Genesis. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Second Death and the Restitution of all Things. Crown 8vo.3s. 6d.
Kalisch's Bible Studies. PART I. the Prophecies of Balaam. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
PART II. the Book of Jonah. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Historical and Critical Commentary on the Old Testament; with a
New Translation. Vol. I. Genesis, 8vo. 18s. or adapted for the General
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Vol. III. Leviticus, Part I. 15s. or adapted for the General Reader, 8s.
Vol. IV. Leviticus, Part II. 15s. or adapted for the General Reader, 8s.
Lyra Germanica: Hymns translated by Miss Winkworth. Fcp. 8vo. 5s.
Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost. 8vo. 8s. 6d.
Martineau's Endeavours after the Christian Life.
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Portrait. 18s.
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Sermons, Hours of Thought on Sacred Things. 2 vols. 7s. 6d. each.
Merivale's (Dean) Lectures on Early Church History. Crown 8vo. 5s.
Mill's Three Essays on Religion. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Missionary Secretariat of Henry Venn, B.D. 8vo.
Monsell's Spiritual Songs for Sundays and Holidays.
Müller's (Max) Lectures on the Science of Religion.
Newman's Apologia pro Vitâ Suâ. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Passing Thoughts on Religion. By Miss Sewell. Fcp. 8vo. 3s. 6d.
Sewell's (Miss) Preparation for the Holy Communion. 32mo. 3s.
Smith's Voyage and Shipwreck of St. Paul. Crown 8vo. 7s. Cd.
Supernatural Religion. Complete Edition. 3 vols. 8vo. 36s.
Thoughts for the Age. By Miss Sewell. Fep. Svo. 3s. 6d.
Vaughan's Trident, Crescent, and Cross; the Religious History of India. 8vo.9s.6d.
Whately's Lessons on the Christian Evidences. 18mo. 64,
White's Four Gospels in Greek, with Greek-English Lexicon. 32mo. 5s.
TRAVELS, VOYAGES &C.
Baker's Rifle and Hound in Ceylon. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Eight Years in Ceylon. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Ball's Alpine Guide. 3 vols. post 8vo. with Maps and Illustrations :-I. Western
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Ball on Alpine Travelling, and on the Geology of the Alps, 1s.
Bent's Freak of Freedom, or the Republic of San Marino. Crown Svo. 7s. 6d.
Brassey's Sunshine and Storm in the East. 8vo. 21s.
<
Voyage in the Yacht Sunbeam.' Cr. 8vo. 7s. 6d. School Edition, 2s.
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General Lists of New Works.
Edwards's (A. B.) Thousand Miles up the Nile. Imperial 8vo. 42s.
Hassall's San Remo and the Western Riviera. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Macnamara's Medical Geography of India. 8vo. 21s.
Miller's Wintering in the Riviera. Post 8vo. Illustrations, 12s. 6d.
Packe's Guide to the Pyrenees, for Mountaineers. Crown 8vo. 78. 6d.
Rigby's Letters from France, &c. in 1789. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Shore's Flight of the 'Lapwing', Sketches in China and Japan. 8vo.
The Alpine Club Map of Switzerland. In Four Sheets. 42s.
WORKS OF FICTION.
Blues and Buffs. By Arthur Mills. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Hawthorne's (J.) Yellow-Cap and other Fairy Stories. Crown 8vo. 6s.
The Crookit Meg. By Shirley. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Cabinet Edition of Stories and Tales by Miss Sewell :-
Cleve Hall, 2s. 6d.
Amy Herbert, 2s. 6d.
The Earl's Daughter, 2s. 6d.
Experience of Life, 2s. 6d.
Gertrude, 2s. 6d.
Ivors, 2s. 6d.
Katharine Ashton, 2s. 6d.
Laneton Parsonage, 38. 6d.
Margaret Percival, 3s. 6d.
Ursula, 3s. 6d.
Novels and Tales by the Right Hon. the Earl of Beaconsfield, K.G. Cabinet
Edition, complete in Ten Volumes, crown 8vo. price £3.
Lothair, 6s.
Coningsby, 6s.
Sybil, 6s.
Tancred, 6s.
Venetia, 63.
Henrietta Temple, 6s.
Contarini Fleming, 65.
Alroy, Ixion, &c. 6s.
The Young Duke, &c. 6s.
Vivian Grey, 6s.
Klein's Pastor's Narrative. Translated by Marshall. Crown Svo. Map, 63,
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Sybil.
Tancred.
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Henrietta Temple.
Contarini Fleming.
Alroy, Ixion, &c.
The Young Duke, &c.
Vivian Grey.
By Anthony Trollope.
Barchester Towers.
The Warden.
By the Author of 'the Rose Garden.'
Unawares.
By Major Whyte-Melville.
Digby Grand.
General Bounce.
Kate Coventry.
The Gladiators.
Good for Nothing.
Holmby House.
The Interpreter.
The Queen's Maries.
By the Author of 'the Atelier du Lys.'
Mademoiselle Mori.
The Atelier du Lys.
By Various Writers.
Atherstone Priory.
The Burgomaster's Family.
Elsa and her Vulture.
The Six Sisters of the Valleys.
Lord Beaconsfield's Novels and Tales. 10 vols. cloth extra, gilt edges, 30s.
Whispers from Fairy Land. By the Right Hon. Lord Brabourne. With Nine
Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.
Higgledy-Piggledy; or, Stories for Everybody and Everybody's Children. By
the Right Hon. Lord Brabourne. With Nine Illustrations from Designs by
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General Lists of New Works.
11
POETRY & THE DRAMA.
Bailey's Festus, a Poem. Crown 8vo. 12s. 6d.
Bowdler's Family Shakspeare. Medium 8vo. 14s. 6 vols. fcp. 8vo. 21s.
Cayley's Iliad of Homer, Homometrically translated. 8vo. 12s. 6d.
Conington's Eneid of Virgil, translated into English Verse. Crown 8vo. 9s.
Cooper's Tales from Euripides. Fcp. 8vo. 3s. 6d.
Horace's Epistles, Book II. and ars Poetica, annotated by Cox. 12mo.
Ingelow's Poems. New Edition. 2 vols. fcp. 8vo. 12s.
Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, with Ivry and the Armada. 16mo. 3s. 6d.
Ormsby's Poem of the Cid. Translated. Post 8vo. 5s.
Southey's Poetical Works. Medium 8vo. 14s.
Yonge's Horatii Opera, Library Edition. 8vo. 21s.
RURAL SPORTS, HORSE & CATTLE MANAGEMENT
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Blaine's Encyclopædia of Rural Sports. 8vo. 21s.
Francis's Treatise on Fishing in all its Branches. Post 8vo. 15s.
Horses and Roads. By Free-Lance. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Miles's Horse's Foot, and How to Keep it Sound. Imperial 8vo. 12s. 6d.
Plain Treatise on Horse-Shoeing. Post Evo. 2s. 6d.
Stables and Stable-Fittings. Imperial Svo. 15s.
Remarks on Horses' Teeth. Post 8vo. 1s. 6d.
Nevile's Horses and Riding. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Ronalds's Fly-Fisher's Entomology. 8vo. 14s.
Steel's Bovine Pathology, or Diseases of the Ox. 8vo.
Stonehenge's Dog in Health and Disease. Square crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Greyhound. Square crown 8vo. 15s.
Youatt's Work on the Dog. 8vo. 6s.
Horse. 8vo. 78. 6d.
Wilcocks's Sea-Fisherman. Post 8vo. 12s. 6d.
WORKS OF UTILITY & GENERAL INFORMATION.
Acton's Modern Cookery for Private Families. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Black's Practical Treatise on Brewing. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Buckton's Food and Home Cookery. Crown 8vo. 2s.
Bull on the Maternal Management of Children. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Bull's Hints to Mothers on the Management of their Health during the Period of
Pregnancy and in the Lying-in Room. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Campbell-Walker's Correct Card, or How to Play at Whist. Fcp. 8vo. 23. 6d.
Crump's English Manual of Banking. 8vo. 15s.
Johnson's (W. & J. H.) Patentee's Manual. Fourth Edition. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Longman's Chess Openings. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Macleod's Economics for Beginners. Small crown 8vo, 2s. 6d.
Elements of Economics. Small crown 8vo.
London, LONGMANS & CO.
[In the press.
12
General Lists of New Works.
Macleod's Theory and Practice of Banking. 2 vols. 8vo. 26s.
Elements of Banking. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s.
M'Culloch's Dictionary of Commerce and Commercial Navigation. 8vo. 633.
Maunder's Biographical Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Historical Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Scientific and Literary Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Treasury of Bible Knowledge, edited by Ayre. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Treasury of Botany, edited by Lindley & Moore. Two Parts, 123.
Treasury of Geography. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Treasury of Knowledge and Library of Reference. Fcp. 8vo. 63.
Treasury of Natural History. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
Pereira's Materia Medica, by Bentley and Redwood. 8vo. 25s.
Pewtner's Comprehensive Specifier; Building-Artificers' Work. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Pierce's Three Hundred Chess Problems and Studies. Fcp. 8vo. 7s. 6d.
Pole's Theory of the Modern Scientific Game of Whist. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Scott's Farm Valuer. Crown 8vo. 5s.
Rents and Purchases. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Smith's Handbook for Midwives. Crown 8vo. 5s.
The Cabinet Lawyer, a Popular Digest of the Laws of England. Fcp. 8vo. 9s.
West on the Diseases of Infancy and Childhood. 8vo. 18s.
Wilson on Banking Reform. 8vo. 7s. 6d.
on the Resources of Modern Countries 2 vols. 8vo. 24s.
MUSICAL WORKS BY JOHN HULLAH,
HULLAH, LL.D.
Chromatic Scale, with the Inflected Syllables, on Large Sheet. 1s. 6d.
Card of Chromatic Scale.
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Exercises for the Cultivation of the Voice. For Soprano or Tenor, 2s. 6d.
Grammar of Musical Harmony. Royal 8vo. 2 Parts, each 1s. 6d.
Exercises to Grammar of Musical Harmony. 1s.
Grammar of Counterpoint. Part I. super-royal 8vo. 2s. 6d.
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Notation, the Musical Alphabet. Crown 8vo. 6d.
Old English Songs for Schools, Harmonised. 6d.
Rudiments of Musical Grammar. Royal 8vo. 3s.
School Songs for 2 and 3 Voices. 2 Books, 8vo. each 6d.
Time and Tune in the Elementary School. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.
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Crown 8vo. 1s. or 2 Parts, 6d. each.
London, LONGMANS & CO.
*
Spottiswoode & Co. Printers, New-street Square, London.

Form 9584
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY
2 1977
DATE DUE