LECTURES
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IN THE
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ARISTOTLE'S
ETHICS
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
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HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
Armelotale
!
Lectures in the Lyceum
OR
ARISTOTLE'S ETHICS FOR
ENGLISH READERS
EDITED BY
ST. GEORGE STOCK
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1897
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PREFACE
THIS work, it is hoped, will prove useful to the
Oxford student in his studies, perhaps even to the
lecturer in his lectures, since the desire to be popular
has not led the writer to shirk any difficulties. But
its aim is to appeal beyond a merely Academic
audience to the wider circle of English and American
readers, who may care to know something of the
philosophy of Aristotle.
For the headings to the Lectures and for the Index
of Names, I am indebted to the kindness of Mr. Chris-
topher Phillips, late scholar of Brasenose College.
The references to the pages have been added by my
wife.
In a preface to a former work—a partial translation
of the Nicomachean Ethics-I acknowledged my
obligations to previous labourers in the same field.
Since then we have been presented with a revised
text of that treatise by Professor Bywater and with
a monumental commentary by Mr. J. A. Stewart, of
which I have made much use. But there was one
debt mentioned which still outweighs all the rest.
It is to the late Professor Chandler, whose very
words and felicitous illustrations I have used wherever
65542
A 3
vi
PREFACE
I could. In the attempt to do so I have been
materially assisted by Mr. Herbert Greene, Fellow
of Magdalen and formerly scholar of Pembroke
College, who lent me notes taken by himself and
others from the same course of the Professor's lec-
tures which I had myself attended-now more than
a quarter of a century ago. I claim it as a merit to
have endeavoured to rescue something of Professor
Chandler's mind from 'oblivion's subtle wrong.' But
who shall recall the breadth and depth of view, the
vivacity and wit of expression, the learning and yet.
the lightness, which lent so unique a charm to the
spoken utterances of that greatest of Aristotelian
scholars ?
Almost at the last moment I have to thank
Mr. George Holden, sub-librarian of All Souls
College, for his kindness in casting his practised
eye over my proofs. Mr. C. S. Jerram, of Trinity
College, Oxford, has assisted me with his criticism
from the beginning; and I gladly seize this oppor-
tunity of acknowledging how much I have learnt
from that elegant scholar during many pleasant.
hours of private intercourse. If it were not for his
favourable opinion and that of Mr. J. A. Stewart, of
Ch. Ch., this work, which was written in the Long
Vacation of 1893, might still have been withheld from
the light.
8, MUSEUM Road, Oxford,
March 19, 1897.
CONTENTS
LECTURE I.
THE SCIENCE OF STATECRAFT: ITS AIM: ITS EVIDENCE:
ITS STUDENTS
LECTURE II.
VARIOUS OPINIONS ABOUT HAPPINESS: IT IS NOT PLEASure,
HONOUR, VIRTUE, WEALTH
LECTURE III.
HAPPINESS IS NOT A PLATONIC IDEA
LECTURE IV.
DEFINITION OF THE GOOD OR HAPPINESS: HAPPINESS IS AN
ACTIVITY OF THE SOUL IN ACCORDANCE WITH VIRTUE IN
A PERFECT LIFE.
LECTURE V.
PAGE
I
8
·
14
•
24
THIS DEFINITION INCLUDES ALL OTHERS: HOW HAPPINESS IS
ATTAINED
33
viii
CONTENTS
LECTURE VI.
PAGE
HOW HAPPINESS IS RELATED TO FORTUNE
43
LECTURE VII.
DIVISIONS OF THE SOUL: VIRTUE PROVISIONALLY DEFINED
LECTURE VIII.
VIRTUE COMES BY HABIT: CHARACTERISTICS OF THE ACTS
WHICH TEND TO FORM IT
LECTURE IX.
THE RELATION OF VIRTUE TO PLEASURE : THE ANALOGY
BETWEEN VIRTUE AND ART: REFUTATION OF AN OBJEC-
TION AGAINST THE DOCTRINE THAT VIRTUE IS ACQUIRED
BY HABIT.
LECTURE X.
THE GENUS AND DIFFERENCE OF VIRTUE
LECTURE XI.
55
62
69
. 82
THE FULL DEFINITION OF VIRTUE: SOME CRITICISMS ANSWERED 95
LECTURE XII.
APPLICATION OF THE DOCTRINE OF THE MEAN TO THE
VIRTUES IN DETAIL AND TO TWO QUASI-VIRTUES: RE-
LATION OF THE TEN VIRTUES TO THE FOUR CARDINAL
VIRTUES: CLASSIFICATION OF THE VIRTUES ACCORDING
TO SPHERE.
•
102
LECTURE XIII.
ORDER OF THE VIRTUES: THE RELATION OF THE EXTREMES
TO EACH OTHER AND TO THE MEANS: PRACTICAL SUGGES-
TIONS FOR ATTAINING THE MEAN
?
•
I 12
CONTENTS
ix
LECTURE XIV.
VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY ACTS: INVOLUNTARY ACTS
DUE TO COMPULSION OR IGNORANCE: DEFINITION OF A
COMPULSORY ACT
PAGE
127
LECTURE XV.
ACTS DUE TO IGNORANCE: THE VOLUNTARY ACT DEFINED:
DIFFICULTIES CONNECTED WITH THE DEFINITION
•
·
139
LECTURE XVI.
THE PURPOSED ACT Defined
•
LECTURE XVII.
THE INTELLECTUAL ELEMENT IN PURPOSE: THE EMOTIONAL
ELEMENT IN PURPOSE: PURPOSE DEfined
LECTURE XVIII
VOLUNTARINESS OF VIRTUE AND VICE
•
LECTURE XIX.
THE MORAL VIRTUES IN DETAIL: COURAGE-ITS SPHERE
AND DEFINITION.
LECTURE XX.
SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE: COURAGE CHIEFLY
CONCERNED WITH PAIN
LECTURE XXI.
TEMPERANCE-ITS SPHERE AND DEFINITION: TEMPERANCE
COMPARED WITH COURAGE
156
165
178
•
189
200
•
213
*
CONTENTS
LECTURE XXII.
LIBERALITY-ITS SPHERE AND DEFINITION
LECTURE XXIII.
PAGE
230
MAGNIFICENCE-ITS SPHERE AND DEFINITION
247
LECTURE XXIV.
GREATNESS OF SOUL: THE GREAT-SOULED MAN
• 257
LECTURE XXV.
LOVE OF HONOUR: GENTLENESS: THE SOCIAL VIRTUES:
FRIENDLINESS: TRUTHFULNESS
LECTURE XXVI.
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES CONTINUED: WIT: REMARKS ON THE
SOCIAL VIRTUES: THE QUASI-VIRTUES-SHAME AND
INDIGNATION
LECTURE XXVII.
JUSTICE IN GENERAL: ITS RELATION TO VIRTUE A CLASSI-
FICATION OF CONSTITUTIONS
LECTURE XXVIII.
JUSTICE IN PARTICULAR-EVIDENCE FOR ITS EXISTENCE: ITS
SUBDIVISIONS: DISTRIBUTIVE JUSTICE
LECTURE XXIX.
CORRECTIVE JUSTICE: CRITICISM OF THE IDEA OF RETALIA-
TION: PROPORTIONAL RECIPROCITY THE BOND OF UNION
IN STATES: FUNCTION OF MONEY
270
• 283
•
297
309
•
323
CONTENTS
xi
LECTURE XXX.
IN WHAT SENSE JUSTICE IS A MEAN: JUSTICE DEFINED:
CIVIL JUSTICE and Household Justice: NatuRAL AND
CONVENTIONAL JUSTICE: DISTINCTION BETWEen Justice
AND JUST DEALING: JUSTICE MUST BE VOLUNTARY
PAGE
34I
LECTURE XXXI.
CAN A MAN BE INJURED VOLUNTARILY? IN A FALSE AWARD
WHO DOES THE INJUSTICE? CAN A MAN BE UNJUST TO
HIMSELF? IS IT WORSE TO DO OR TO SUFFER INJUSTICE?
EQUITY-THE EQUITABLE Man
•
361
PERSONS IN THE DIALOGUE
ARISTOTLE.
THEOPHRASTUs, his successor as the head of the Peri-
patetic School.
EUDEMUS, a prominent disciple, author of the Eudemian
Ethics.
NICOMACHUS, Aristotle's son, who died young, and whose
name has been given to the Nicomachean Ethics.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
LECTURE I
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, I. 1-3]
THE SCIENCE OF STATECRAFT: ITS AIM: ITS
EVIDENCE: ITS STUDENTS
Aristotle. THE course on which we are now entering is
to deal with the Philosophy of Man. Take anything that
man does with head, hand, or heart-look at his sciences,
his arts, his conduct and purposes--you will find that they
all aim at some good. Do you doubt this? Then try to
reverse the idea: try to imagine some science or art which
consciously aims at evil. Why, the thing is unthinkable!
We may therefore identify 'aim' or 'end' with good.
Hence the Highest Good has been rightly defined as 'the
aim of all things.'
Here let me pause to point out to you the differences
that exist among ends.
First, there is a difference in kind. For sometimes the
action is its own end, in which case we will say that the end
is an 'activity,' and sometimes the end is a 'result' beyond
the action itself. Thus the end of the art of riding is
simply the act of riding, whereas the end of statuary is
a statue. In the latter case it is evident that the result
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is better, that is, more of an end, than the activity which
leads to it. It is herein that the difference lies between
'doing' and 'making.' Broadly speaking, these two modes
of activity are distinguished by the fact that the former is
pursued for its own sake and the latter for the sake of its
result.
Secondly, there is an individual difference among ends,
seeing that they are as different as the sciences or arts
or less systematized courses of action which lead to them.
Thus the end of medicine is health, of ship-building a ship,
of the art of war victory, of economy wealth.
Thirdly, there is a difference of degree among ends.
For sometimes one end is pursued for the sake of another,
this for the sake of a third, and so on. Thus a bridle is the
end of the art of bridle-making. But who makes bridles
for their own sake? Would there be bridles in a country
where no one practised riding? And would riding be
practised with the same care that it is, if it were not
a branch of the art of war? This last-named art stands in
the position of a master-art to riding and other branches
of military exercise, while these in their turn dominate the
still lower arts which minister to them. Wherever there is
such a gradation among arts, it is evident that the ends
of the master-arts are more choiceworthy than the ends of
any of the arts that fall under them. For if we desire A for
the sake of B, and B for the sake of C, and C for the sake
of D, it is evident that we desire D more than A, B, or C.
The difference in degree among ends is not affected by
the difference in kind. Thus look at the hierarchy of arts
which we selected as an example—
The art of war.
The art of horsemanship.
The art of bridle-making.
In the case of bridle-making the end is a result; in the
I]
3
THE SCIENCE OF STATECRAFT
case of horsemanship the end is an activity; but this in no
way affects the question of subordination.
To return now to the supreme end of action, let me
begin by pointing out to you that in the philosophical
treatment of any subject there are always two questions to
be asked--
(1) Does the thing exist?
(2) What is it?
Unless the first question be answered in the affirmative,
the second is plainly superfluous.
Have we then any right to suppose that there is some
end of all human action? We have spoken of desiring
A for the sake of B, B for the sake of C, and C for the sake
of D. May we assume that there is some Z, in which our
efforts rest, and that the series does not go on to infinity?
If there be some such terminus of endeavour we are
certainly justified in calling it the Highest Good: but we
have still to ask-Is there? Let me be frank with you on
this subject. The only proof that I can offer you of the
existence of a Highest Good lies in the fact that we all desire
it. It is inconceivable that man should be cursed with an
unsatisfiable desire for an object which has no existence.
God and Nature, that have made nothing in vain else-
where, would not thus have left their masterpiece a torso.
Granting then the existence of this Highest Good, it is
hardly necessary to dilate upon the importance of knowing
it. What his aim is to the archer, such is the knowledge
of this good to us. For the end must determine the means,
and our conception of good must colour every act of our
lives.
This being so, two questions now present themselves for
treatment-
(1) What is this Highest Good?
(2) To what science or art does it belong to treat of it?
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
The first question will find its answer as we proceed.
To the second we may return an answer at once. As
every art or science aims at some good, the Highest Good
must be the object of the supreme art or science—of that
which in the truest sense we may call the Master-art.
That this art is Statecraft may be gathered from two con-
siderations--
(1) If you see a number of men employed on building
a house, one of them, it may be, mixing the mortar, another
carrying a hod of bricks up a ladder, while a third lays the
bricks in their places, and if there is one man there who
takes no part in the details himself, but who assigns their
work to all the rest, you conclude that he is the master-
builder. Even so, when you find a science, which assigns
their places to all the rest, prescribing who shall learn what,
and how far the study of each science shall be carried, you
may rest assured that this is the master-science.
(2) Again, if you take the other faculties which are held
in the highest esteem, such as war, economy, and rhetoric,
you will find that they are directly subservient to statecraft.
For war aims at the safety of the state; economy at the
proper management of a household, and the state is made
up of households; while rhetoric, as we all know, is the
means of influencing your fellow-citizens and obtaining
power in a state.
Since statecraft then stands in this governing and con-
trolling relation to the rest of the arts and sciences, it is
evident that its end must embrace the ends of all the rest,
so that this will be the good of man.
NICOMACHUS. May I ask, father, whether by 'the good
of man' you mean the good of an individual man-the
good of Coriscus, for instance?
ARISTOTLE. No, I do not. I mean the good of the
community or state. It may indeed be the case, and
1]
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THE SCIENCE OF STATECRAFT
I incline to think it is, that Coriscus will find his own
good in what constitutes the good of the community but
whether that be so or not, it is the good of the state that
we are now in search of, as being the greater and more
perfect good. If we can only secure the good of an
individual, that is something to be thankful for: but the
good of a state or nation is a nobler and diviner object
at which to aim. We are approaching ethics,' or the
science of conduct, from the side of politics, or statecraft.
By the latter I mean that great practical science which has
for its aim to secure the good of man. Now the good of
man, in the sense in which I have explained it, of the good
of the state, depends chiefly upon the conduct of individuals.
Hence the science which deals with conduct is a branch of
politics or statecraft.
Having settled what our aim is, and having further deter-
mined to what science it belongs to treat of it, we have
now to ask-What knowledge can we expect to get with
regard to it?
The sciences with which you are most familiar are those
which deal with the laws of space and number. These are
called 'exact' sciences, because the truths with which they
deal are absolute, admit of no exceptions, and hold true
equally at all times and in all places. Now the science
upon which we are about to enter is not one which lends
itself to an exact treatment. Ideas of right and justice,
which are the subject-matter of political science, are of
a nature essentially relative: no statement can be made
about them which admits of no exceptions and holds true
equally at all times and in all places. The fluctuating
character of these ideas have led many thinkers, such as
Archelaus and Protagoras, to suppose that in the nature
of things there is nothing right or just, but that things are
made right and just by people being agreed to think them
6
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
1
so, or, to put the same thing more briefly, that right and
justice exist only conventionally, and not by nature. The
same sort of uncertainty attaches also to the wider idea of
good. Speaking in the abstract, who doubts but that wealth
and courage are 'goods'? And yet how often have these
goods proved the ruin of their possessors! Such then
being the nature of our subject-matter, you must lay aside
at starting many of your preconceived ideas of science, or
rather, you must enlarge your conception of science by
bearing in mind that such as the premisses are, such also
must be the conclusions: if the premisses are universal and
necessary, then expect conclusions of the most rigorous
exactness, but if the premisses are only generalities, or
things which hold true in the main, then be content with
conclusions of the same kind.
And this leads me to remark that very few people know
what kind of evidence to ask for, or what kind of evidence
to be satisfied with. It requires education to understand
that so much exactness only must be required as is in
keeping with the nature of the subject. You might just as
well accept an appeal to probability from a mathematician
as demand demonstrations from an orator. For a man to
be a good judge of any subject he must know that subject:
so that to be a good judge of a particular subject, one must
have been educated in that subject, and to be a good
judge generally, one must have received a good general
education.
It follows from what we have been saying that the young
are not fitting students of our present science. For it deals
with life and conduct; it is these which furnish the
premisses, and it is to these that the conclusions relate.
Now it is just here that the young are deficient-namely in
experience of life. Experience is an essential element
in wisdom, because we must have felt the force of a maxim
1]
7
THE SCIENCE OF STATECRAFT
before we can thoroughly know it. The young man may
indeed be taught moral truths just as he may be taught
mathematics: but he will not realise them until they have
been brought home to him by the great teacher -Life.
There is another reason which unfits the young for the
study of this subject, namely, that they are liable to be led
astray by passion, in which case all their pains will be
thrown away. For you must remember that the science
before us is not a speculative, but a practical one. The
end for which we are met together now is not knowledge,
but conduct. The disqualification, of which I have last
been speaking, is not a mere matter of age, but rather one
of temperament. Some people are, I cannot say 'young,'
but 'youngish' all their lives. A man may be so at eighty,
if all his pursuits are still dictated by passion. Wherever
there is this lack of self-restraint knowledge on this subject
is thrown away: but to those whose impulses and actions
are guided by reason, nothing could be more useful than to
know about these things.
Let so much serve by way of introduction. You will
remember that there are three topics chiefly that have been
dwelt upon-
(1) The aim of our science—to ascertain the Good of
Man,
(2) The nature of the evidence-in proportion to the
subject-matter,
(3) The qualifications of the student-experience and
superiority to passion.
LECTURE II
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, I. 4, 5]
VARIOUS OPINIONS ABOUT HAPPINESS: IT IS NOT
PLEASURE, HONOUR, VIRTUE, WEALTH
We began by saying that all knowledge and purpose aims
at some good. Let us now endeavour to determine what is
the good at which our science of statecraft aims, and what
therefore is the highest of all goods attainable by action.
We cannot begin better than by taking a glance at the
opinions already held on the subject.
As to the name of this Highest Good there is a pretty
general agreement. For all men, whether vulgar or refined,
are content to call it happiness; and if challenged to
explain what they mean by being happy, they would
probably employ the familiar phrase 'to live well and to do
well.' But at this point agreement may be said to cease.
For if we go further into the matter, we shall find the
utmost diversity of opinion, and the account of the nature
of happiness which is given by the many will be very
different from that of the wise. The former have a way of
fixing upon some obvious and palpable feature of well-
being, such as pleasure or wealth or honour, each according
to his different temperament. But not only do the many
differ from each other; they also differ from themselves.
A man's notion of happiness is not merely a question of
VARIOUS OPINIONS ABOUT HAPPINESS
9
character and temperament, but also of changing conditions
and circumstances. If he falls ill, he thinks happiness is
health; if he is poor, he thinks it is wealth; if he is
conscious of ignorance, he thinks happiness is knowledge,
and so admires any one who talks big and above his head.
Perhaps I hardly like to suggest the idea-this last fact
may have something to do with the respect shown for the
doctrine of a transcendental and absolute good, which is
the cause of the goodness of all these lower goods. You
will gather from what I have said how widely divergent are
the views held on this subject. It would be superfluous to
attempt to examine all of them. We will be content to take
those which are most in vogue or which have some show of
For there are two forms of authority to which we
always bow-the authority of the many and the authority of
the wise. But before we go further I wish to say a few
words as to the method to be pursued in our inquiry.
reason.
There are two ways open to us-
(1) To start from first principles, and arrive at the com-
plex results. This is the Synthetic or Deductive Method.
(2) To start from the complex results, and work back to
the first principles or causes on which they depend. This
is the Analytic or Inductive Method.
Plato in his lectures used often to raise the inquiry which
of these two methods it was proper to adopt in a given case,
whether we should proceed from first principles or to first
principles, just as in the race-course you may go from the
stewards to the limit or back the other way. One thing is
certain, that we must begin from what is knowable. But
then things are knowable in two ways. Some are more
knowable-I will not say 'absolutely,' for all knowledge.
implies a relation to some intelligence, but-universally,
whereas others are more knowable to us. Of the latter
kind are effects as opposed to causes, phenomena as opposed
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
to laws, particulars as opposed to universals; in one word
things are more knowable to us in proportion as they are
nearer to sense, and more knowable universally in pro-
portion as they are farther from sense. Now the under-
lying principles of morality are not known to us, whereas
the facts on the surface are. Therefore the analytical
method of investigation is the one which should be pursued.
Whatever course others may think proper to take, let us
at least begin from the end of the stick which we have
in our hands.
Hence you see that a right moral training is an indis-
pensable pre-requisite for a student of what is right and just.
and of the subjects of political science generally. For the
existence within us of certain moral sentiments is the basis
of fact on which any system of morality must be built. If
a man is possessed of these, and prepared to act on them, it
is a luxury rather than a necessity that he should know the
reason why. Such a man either has a knowledge of first
principles already within himself or can easily acquire the
same. As to him of whom neither of these things can be
said, we can only remind him of the words of Hesiod
Best of men is he who thinks for himself in all things;
He too is good in his way who takes advice from a wiser:
But he who neither thinks for himself, nor hearing another
Layeth the words to heart, is a useless fool of a fellow.'
To return however from this digression. We were about
to examine the opinions which men hold with respect to
happiness. Now men sometimes have one set of opinions
for show and another for use. But the true opinion is
declared not by what a man says, but by what he does.
What a man is prepared to act on-that is the exact
measure of his real belief.
Hence the best way to get
at men's opinions is to look at the lives they lead. Now,
broadly speaking, there are three lives which men lead—
II]
VARIOUS OPINIONS ABOUT HAPPINESS II
(1) The life of enjoyment,
(2) The life of action,
(3) The life of thought.
There is also a fourth life—the money-getting life—but
it cannot be put on a level with the rest, for reasons which
will be apparent.
We will now state the ends of these different lives, and
then examine the claims of each of them to be considered
the highest good-
(1) The life of enjoyment has for its end pleasure.
(2) The life of action has for its end honour or else
virtue.
(3) The life of thought has for its end thought itself.
(4) The money-getting life has for its end wealth.
We will not waste words on the view that pleasure,
taking that term in the sense of mere physical enjoyment,
is the end of life. The many, who think thus, are utterly
degraded, though they may claim a shadow of justification
for their view from the example of persons in high position,
who do their best to imitate Sardanapalus or Smindyrides.
the Sybarite. But if this were the end of life, a beast
would be as capable of happiness as a man. The bull in
Egypt, which they worship as Apis, wallows in delights that
might excite the envy of many a monarch.
Perhaps honour then may be the end of life. This is as
a rule the aim of the man of action, who is of a higher type
than the devotee of pleasure. But the following considera-
tions will be found fatal to this view. Honour is lacking in
two of the characteristics which we expect to find in the
Highest Good —
(1) It is lacking in security.
(2) It is lacking in finality.
Honour is lacking in security, because, though it lies
with a man himself to deserve honour, it does not lie with
12
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himself to obtain it; it depends upon the giver, not on the
receiver. Thus honour is an external good, whereas we
instinctively feel that The Good must be something personal
and inalienable, something of which we cannot be deprived
or defrauded through the caprices of fortune or the malice.
of men.
Again honour is lacking in finality, for, by men of sense
at all events, it is desired, not for its own sake, but as
a proof of merit. If this were not so, honour from A would
be of precisely the same value as honour from B, just as
a drachma is worth six obols, whether the hand it comes
from be clean or dirty. But no one but a fool covets
honour thus. Men prefer to be honoured by the wise and
by those to whom they are known. Why by the wise?
Because they are the best judges of merit. And why by
those to whom they are known? Because they have the
best opportunities for judging of merit.
Are we then to say that merit itself, that is, virtue, is the
true end of the life of action, and consider its claim to be
the Highest Good?
Virtue is certainly a claimant that deserves respectful
consideration. Yet even virtue may be seen to be deficient
in two respects. For suppose we had the most virtuous
man of the age here among us, and were able by some
exercise of power to throw him into a deep and lasting
slumber, and so deprive him of all power of action-should
we have at all diminished his virtue? Plainly not. And
yet who would call him happy? He would no more be
happy than a plant is happy, into the semblance of whose
life he had subsided. Or again take the same man, and
suppose him to be poor and despised, racked by anxiety
of mind and pain of body. It would be the merest paradox
to call such a man happy; and yet none of these things
diminish his virtue. But enough about this subject, for
II] VARIOUS OPINIONS ABOUT HAPPINESS
13
it has been adequately treated even in the
even in the ordinary
curriculum.
The consideration of the life of thought and its end we
will postpone to a later period of these lectures. Let it
suffice to say now that life is like the Olympic games.
Most people come to enjoy themselves; there are many
who come to buy and sell and make profit; some come to
contend for honour; a few come merely to survey the
scene-and these are the nobler portion.
For
As to the money-getting life, that is no life at all.
by 'life' we mean the way in which a man directs his
energies when he is free to direct them as he pleases. You
must therefore presuppose freedom from necessary cares as
the condition of life. So long as a man is engaged in
a struggle to amass the means of subsistence, he has not
begun to live at all. As for those who deliberately make
wealth the aim of their efforts beyond what their needs
require, they are mistaking the means for the end. Wealth
is valuable only for the things it can procure you; and
these are pleasure to the extent of your capacity for enjoy-
ment and honour-from fools. It will not procure you
the higher goods of wisdom and virtue. Wealth, therefore,
is manifestly on a lower level than the other ends that have
been mentioned. They are loved for their own sakes, and
yet even they, as we have seen, are not in the highest sense
ends, in spite of all the arguments that have been laid down
to prove them so. So here we quit this subject.
LECTURE III
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, I. 6]
HAPPINESS IS NOT A PLATONIC IDEA
Ir is now incumbent upon us to consider the philo-
sophical doctrine of an absolute and transcendent good.
All other goods, it is maintained, are but shadows and
imitations of this. It exists in them all, in a sense, being
the common quality which makes them good; but it exists
also apart from them, not in the world of sense, but in the
world of mind-the world of absolute reality. Not only
is this doctrine abstruse and difficult in itself, but the task
of criticizing it is rendered still more uphill work to us by
the fact that it owes its origin to those for whom we
entertain so high a regard. But though Plato is dear, yet
truth is dearer still; and though we are bound by ties of
piety and reverence to a master, yet the sanctity of our
obligation to reason outweighs even these. What else is
meant by calling ourselves philosophers, or lovers of wisdom,
but that we are ready to sacrifice all for truth? I will
therefore not flinch from declaring my own opinion on this
subject, as indeed I have often done before both to public
audiences and to the inner circle. That opinion amounts
briefly to this-
(1) That the existence of an 'idea,' not of good only,
HAPPINESS IS NOT A PLATONIC IDEA 15
but of anything else whatever, is a mere logical fiction
without anything real to correspond to it.
2) That, even if the ideas existed ever so much, they
would have no bearing upon life and practice.
This opinion must of course be supported by reasoning;
and as some of the arguments I shall have to adduce involve
a reference to the Categories, I must begin by reminding
you of that doctrine, although it belongs properly to the
course on Dialectic.
Any uncombined expression then must signify either
substance, or quantity, or quality, or relation, or place, or
time, or position, or state, or doing, or suffering. As rough
instances we may take-of substance 'man,' 'horse'; of
quantity 'two cubits,' 'three cubits'; of quality 'white,'
'grammatical'; of relation 'double,' 'half,' 'greater'; of
place in the Lyceum,' 'in the market'; of time 'yesterday,'
'last year'; of position 'lying,' 'sitting'; of state 'shod,
'armed'; of doing 'cutting,' 'burning'; of suffering 'being
cut,' 'being burnt.'
These then are our ten categories –
1. Substance.
2. Quantity.
3. Quality.
4. Relation.
5. Place.
6. Time.
7. Position.
8. State.
9. Doing.
10. Suffering.
>
Having premised so much, I now proceed to give the
arguments which I conceive to be fatal to the doctrine of
ideas.
(1) The inventors of that doctrine did not contend that
there could be a common idea of things of which you could
predicate 'before' and 'after,' e. g. numbers. For the idea
being common to all the things, and yet apart from them,
must necessarily be prior to them, so that you would then
have something which is before the first. For instance, we
16
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
call 2 the first multiple: but if 'multiple,' which is predicable
of it, as well as of 4, 6, 8, 9, &c., exists apart from it, as it
is maintained that an idea does, then the first multiple
must cease to be called such, since the idea multiple" is
a multiple, and is necessarily prior to 2, for if you take
away the idea, all the things which depend for their existence
upon it must go too.
Now good is predicable not only in the category of
substance, but also in others, each as quality and relation;
and substance is evidently prior to relation, which may be
regarded as a sort of side-growth and accident of being.
There cannot therefore be any idea which is common to
goods under these two categories, since they differ in
respect of before and after.
(2) Again good is predicable in just as many ways as
being. Thus it is predicable in the category of
Substance, as God and mind;
Quantity, the moderate;
Quality, the virtues, e.g. justice;
Relation, the useful;
Place, the 'habitat' or fitting abode of any creature;
Time, opportunity;
Position, comfortable;
State, good condition;
Doing, teaching;
Suffering, being taught.
But if all good were one, then it would be predicable
only in a single category.
(3) Again it is maintained that when things fall under
one idea, the knowledge of them is also one: so that if there
were an idea of good, there would be but one knowledge of
all good. But as a matter of fact there are several branches
of knowledge connected even with such forms of good ast
fall under the same category. Thus take 'opportunity'
I
III] HAPPINESS IS NOT A PLATONIC IDEA
17
under the category of time, it is generalship which deals.
with it in war, but the art of medicine which deals with it
in illness; or take 'the moderate' under the category of
quantity, the knowledge of it in relation to food is again the
art of medicine, but in relation to exercise, it is gymnastic,
or the art of the trainer. We see then that the knowledge
of good, instead of being one, is infinitely various.
(4) One may fairly raise an objection also against their
use of the term 'very-so-and-so.' They talk of the very-
man, for instance, as something immeasurably superior to
any ordinary man such as we know of. And yet the
definition of man must apply equally to both, for in respect
of mere manhood, which is all that the idea contains, there
will be no difference between this very-man and a man of
common clay.
THEOPHRASTUS. Surely I have heard the followers of
Plato maintain that the very-man is eternal and imperish-
able, whereas the particular human being is fleeting and
transitory, and that this constitutes a difference in kind
between the idea and its copy.
But
ARISTOTLE. I am aware that they maintain this.
I deny that time in its presence or absence can affect the
nature of things. The alabaster which lasts for a myriad of
years is no whiter than the snow which melts with the
spring-time; and similarly the eternity of the idea of man
or of the idea of good does not bestow upon them more
humanity or more goodness.
(5) The very method of proof which is adopted with
regard to the doctrine of an Absolute Good exposes it
to a suspicion of unreality. For that proof is based on
the properties of numbers. Starting from the identity of the
One and the Good, they argue that numbers, which are
combinations of units, must have good inherent in them,
and so proceed to prove the goodness of things other than
C
18
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
numbers, such as justice and health, which display the
same properties of order and unity and rest. This method of
proof is in the strict sense of the term preposterous. From
numbers, which can only be admitted to possess good, they
establish the goodness of things which are admitted to be
good. Whereas they should start from the admitted goodness
of things like health, strength, and temperance, and proceed
to argue a fortiori that as these exhibit the characteristics of
order and rest, therefore goodness must be still more inherent
in numbers which exhibit the same characteristics in a less
diluted form; from this the final step would be to the
identity of the One and the Good. Let me put the same
thing more briefly. As a matter of fact they argue thus—
Order and rest are good,
.. Justice and health are good.
Whereas they ought to argue thus-
Justice and health are good,
.. Order and rest are good.
The Pythagoreans, from whom so much of their thought
and phraseology is borrowed, did not make this mistake.
They subordinate unity to good, not good to unity. And
Speusippus seems to have followed them in this: so that he
turned his predecessor's doctrine clean inside out.
NICOMACHUS. May I ask, father, what is this doctrine of
the Pythagoreans to which you have just referred?
ARISTOTLE. I was referring to their parallel series of
contraries, in which unity figures on the side of good. They
made out the following ten pairs of contraries—
finite
odd
infinite
even
one
right
male
many
left
female
rest
motion
$
111] HAPPINESS IS NOT A PLATONIC IDEA
19
straight
light
crooked
darkness
oblong
square
good
evil
(6) As for their proof that One must be the Absolute
Good, since all numbers would be one if they could, unity
being the goal of their desire, I will simply call it—hazardous.
It is not explained how numbers desire unity, nor how feeling
and impulse can be ascribed to things which have no life.
They ought surely to have concentrated their efforts on
proving this, instead of assuming as an axiom what would
be difficult of belief, even if it were demonstrated. And the
wider assertion which is connected with this, namely, that
all things aim at some one good, is simply not true: for
everything aims at its own good, the eyes at sight, the
body at health, and so on. We therefore will not set out
on a wild-goose chase after the Absolute Good, but will
confine ourselves to that good at which our own science
aims, just as gymnastic confines itself to a good condition
of the body. I have given you now some of the difficulties
which attach to the doctrine of ideas-sufficient, I think, to
dispose of it, though they might be multiplied further, if
this were the time for doing so.
EUDEMUS. I should like to put in a word, if I might do so
without being deemed guilty of presumption. You have
taught us on other occasions to distinguish broadly between
two kinds of goods, the essential and the non-essential or
useful. Of the former kind, you said, were all such goods
as are pursued and loved for their own sakes, and of the
latter kind all such as are held to be good merely because
they are conducive to these, or because they tend to con-
serve them or to remove their contraries. Thus health is
good in itself, but exercise is good because it tends to
promote it, and even physic may be called good in so far
C 2
20
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
as it removes illness. Now I think the Platonists would not
go so far as to maintain that all good is one, but would be
content with the position that all essential good is one.
ARISTOTLE. Your objection is well taken, and I am quite
ready to argue the question on this narrower basis. Among
essential goods I suppose we are to put such things as
wisdom, and sight and pleasures of a certain kind, and
honours for although we desire all these things as means
to something beyond them, we also desire them in and for
themselves. But if these are admitted to be essential goods,
and it is maintained that they are one, it will have to be
shown what is their common definition, just as it might
be shown what is the common definition of whiteness in
snow and white lead. But I believe it is impossible to get
hold of any conception which shall apply alike to honour,
wisdom, and pleasure, and that these things differ essentially
as goods from one another.
On the other hand, if it be denied that these are essential
goods, there will be no essential good left but the idea
itself, so that the division becomes merely formal, one of
the two members not being a real class. In that case our
point is proved; for we cannot well have an idea of essential
goods, if there are no essential goods to have an idea of.
Thus, you see, I put our friends the Platonists on the horns
of a dilemma. Either there are several things that are good
in themselves or only the idea. If they adopt the former
alternative, I challenge them to produce the common
definition; if they adopt the latter, the discussion becomes
nugatory.
EUDEMUS. But does not unity of name imply unity of
nature? Are we to believe that pleasure and wisdom and
honour have come to be called by the same name by
accident?
ARISTOTLE. No, you need not believe that. For there
III]
21
HAPPINESS IS NOT A PLATONIC IDEA
are at least three ways in which things may come by
a common name without having a common nature-
(1) By coming from the same source.
(2) By tending to the same end.
(3) By analogy.
We call gold, apes, and cinnamon by the same name
'foreign produce,' simply because they all come from out-
side, not because they have any essential resemblance.
Again we call oars, javelins, boatswain's pipes, and onions
by the same name 'stores of war,' merely because they tend
to the same end.
Or, without things tending to the same end, we may still
call them by the same name, if they tend to similar ends.
Thus the leg of a table is so called in virtue of its resemblance
in function to the leg of a man. It stands in the same
relation to the table as the leg of a man does to him. This
is what I mean by 'analogy.' It may possibly be in this
third way that all essential goods come to be called by the
same name·
As sight the body :: intellect
As health the body :: virtue
the soul;
the soul;
and so on in other cases. But it is not our present business
to determine this point, which is much more a question of
logic than one of ethics or politics. Our science, by what-
ever name you call it, is concerned only with a good that
is practical and attainable by man, not with the good of
some higher being. And therefore, as I said at starting,
the idea of good, if it existed ever so much, would have no
relation to us.
Even if you drop the transcendence of the idea, and
maintain only the immanence, the same thing may be said.
For if we conceive of the Absolute Good, only as what is
common to all goods, there can be nothing in it but what
is present also in the least of those things which are
22
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
acknowledged to be goods. But does any art-does
medicine for instance-concern itself with such a pale,
generic good? Does it not rather confine itself to its own
full-blooded, concrete good-health?
THEOPHRASTUS. I have heard the Platonists contend
that though the Absolute Good may be beyond man's reach,
yet if we keep it before the mental eye as a pattern, we
shall better understand what is good for us, and therefore
shall be more likely to attain it.
ARISTOTLE. I grant the plausibility of that contention,
but it rests on a confusion of thought between the Platonic
idea and an artistic ideal. There is no resemblance
between the two. The former is the most abstract, the
latter the most concrete thing in the world, being the in-
dividual carried to the highest pitch of perfection. If the
idea could serve this useful purpose, it is strange how
all arts conspire to neglect it. For while all aim at some
particular good, and endeavour to supply the deficiencies
of nature-which I conceive to be the function of art-
within their several spheres, they none of them take any
account of the Absolute Good, and do not seem to be
aware of its existence. And they are right to leave it thus
alone. For indeed it is difficult to see wherein a weaver
or carpenter will be helped in his craft from a knowledge
of this absolute good, or how a man will be made a better
doctor or a better general for having gazed upon the
abstract idea. So far from attempting to do this, the
doctor does not even study health in the abstract, but
the health of man, or rather the health of an individual:
for his practice is directed to particular cases. We will
therefore venture to imitate the arts in this wholesome
neglect of the Absolute Good, and if I employ that term
myself, you must understand me to mean by it a good that
is absolute enough for all practical purposes, namely, the
III]
23
HAPPINESS IS NOT A PLATONIC IDEA
aim of human actions. This is the cause of all other
goods in a real sense, as we have seen already; and to this,
therefore, we will confine ourselves. So much then for
this subject; and so much also for the destructive side
of our inquiry. For so far we have only seen what
happiness is not—that it is not bodily pleasure, or honour,
or virtue, or wealth, or participation in the idea of good.
It still remains to find what it is; so that in our next
lecture we shall enter on the constructive side of the
argument.
LECTURE IV
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, I. 7]
DEFINITION OF THE GOOD OR HAPPINESS:
HAPPI-
NESS IS AN ACTIVITY OF THE SOUL IN ACCOR-
DANCE WITH VIRTUE IN A PERFECT LIFE
THE result of our investigations so far has been merely
to show us that good is different in different cases. In
medicine it is health, in war victory, in house-building a
house, and so on. Can we then give any general account
of it at all? Yes, we can always describe it generally as
the end of particular actions. So the question comes back
to this—' Is there any end of all our actions?' If there is,
this will be the practical good of which we are in search.
NICOMACHUS. Is it conceivable, father, that there should
be more than one good which answers this description?
ARISTOTLE. I think not. The characteristics of the
Highest Good are such as necessarily imply unity. We
shall not be without authority if we postulate of it these
two attributes
(1) It must be final, i. e. we
beyond it.
must desire nothing
(2) It must be self-sufficing, i. e. we must desire nothing
beside it.
When we talk of a good as being final, we mean that it
is pursued for its own sake. Of course a good may be
definition of THE GOOD OR HAPPINESS 25
so far final as to be good in itself, and yet at the same time
subserve some higher good: but that only is absolutely
final which is always pursued for its own sake, and never
for the sake of anything else. We may therefore from
this point of view distinguish goods into three classes—
(1) Ends only;
(2) Ends and means ;
(3) Means only.
To the first class belongs happiness: for we do not
desire happiness in order that we may have other goods,
but we desire other goods in order that we may be happy.
To the second class belongs the bulk of things which are
ordinarily considered to be good in themselves, such as
honour, pleasure, and moral and intellectual excellence:
for we desire these things as means to happiness, though
we might still choose them for their intrinsic excellence,
even if we could suppose them deprived of that reference.
To the third class belong things which no one would
choose for their own sakes, such as wealth, flutes, and
instruments generally.
When we talk of a good as being self-sufficing, we must
not be understood to mean merely what is sufficient for
an individual living a kind of hermit life. For man, you
must remember, is a social being, more so than a bee
or any gregarious animal. The very structure of his mind
shows that he is meant to move in society, and to consider
him apart from this, his natural element, is like considering
a fish apart from water. It is necessary therefore, even
in considering the happiness of an individual, to take some
account of his parents and children, of his wife, of his
friends and fellow-countrymen generally. It is true that
we must draw the line somewhere; we cannot extend
our view backwards, up the whole line of ancestry, or
forwards, down the whole line of descendants, or widen
26
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
it out like a circle from friends to friends of friends and
their friends, for, if so, we should go on for ever. But
the question of where to draw the line may be neglected
for the present. Let us content ourselves now with defining
our notion of the self-sufficing. It is that which by itself
makes life choiceworthy and in lack of nothing. This is
pre-eminently a characteristic of happiness.
To the two attributes which we have already postulated
in happiness we may add a third, which follows from them
by way of corollary, namely, that happiness stands in a
class by itself. It is not a good, but the good. For if
it were a good, which could be reckoned along with other
goods, such as virtue, intellect, health, strength, beauty,
and so on, then happiness plus the very least of these
would be better than happiness per se, and so would cease
to satisfy our definition of the self-sufficing. It is therefore
nonsense to talk of 'health and happiness,' for without
health you cannot have happiness. Happiness is the outcome-
of the combination of all lower goods.
But, after all, to say that happiness is final and self-
sufficing, does not advance us very far on our way towards
obtaining a clear idea of its nature. These statements are
so true as to amount to truisms. Let us seek for some
more pregnant conception.
If you were to ask me what is the good of a pen, I would
say 'to write,' because this is the work of a pen.
A pen
is a lifeless thing, but the same conception may be ex-
tended to things with life. If you were to ask me what
is the good of a flute-player, I would say 'to play the
flute'; and generally we may say that the good and well-
being of any artist, as an artist, lies in the performance
of his work. Perhaps then we shall best understand the
good of man, if we can fix upon the work of man. By the
work of anything I mean that which can be done best,
IV] DEFINITION OF THE GOOD OR HAPPINESS 27
or only, by that thing. But first in order comes the
question whether man has a work.
I do not think this first question really need detain
us. For it is inconceivable that Nature, which has
assigned to everything else its proper work, should have
left man without a work, and created him to idleness.
But for form's sake I will give you two arguments, which
appear to establish the point.
(1) Every man in his particular capacity has a work
to do, the carpenter to make furniture, the shoemaker to
make shoes, &c.
.. Man in general has a work to do.
(2) Every part of man has a work to do, the eye to see,
the ear to hear, &c.
.. Man as a whole has a work to do.
Thus by the analogy of the individual and of the part we
prove that man has a work to do.
The next question then is-What is this work? In dis-
cussing it you will bear in mind the definition that we have
given of work, and will not look for the work of man in
anything that can be done equally well by lower forms of
being.
Now man has an outer and an inner side. The outer
side we call the body, the inner side we call the soul. But
when we talk of 'man' at present we mean the soul, not
the body. Now the work of the soul is manifestly life of
some kind or other. But the question is—Of what kind ?
We may distinguish three forms of life, or three different
grades among the manifestations of the powers of the soul.
There is the vegetative life, the sensitive life, and the rational
life.
Life
Vegetative
Sensitive
Rational
28
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
Man is a plant, but he is a plant that has awakened, and
can feel and move, whereas his fellow-vegetables are chained
to their places. He is a plant and something more, but
still he is a plant. We cut our hair and clip our nails just
as we prune the luxuriance of a vegetable growth. Now the
work of a plant is simply to take in nourishment and to
grow. This cannot be the work of man, since it can be
done as well or better by the trees. No man need be proud
of his stature when he considers how vastly he can be sur-
passed in the matter of growth by a mere vegetable. We
may therefore set aside the vegetable life as having nothing.
to do with the peculiar work of man.
Next comes the sensitive life.
Man is an animal, but he is an animal that has attained
to the knowledge of good and evil. To,express these ideas,
in the various forms of right and wrong, just and unjust,
expedient and inexpedient, he is endowed with rational
speech, whereas the lower animals are only capable of
inarticulate noises, indicative of feelings of pleasure and
pain. They are impelled by these feelings to the pursuit.
or avoidance of particular things: but man alone is capable
of action, that is, of consciously adjusting his behaviour to
the attainment of some distant end. He is an animal and
something more, but still he is an animal, and deep down
in his nature you will find that he is dominated by the
animal desires to seek pleasure and to shun pain. Never-
theless it cannot be in the merely physical life that we are
to look for the special activity of man as man for in this
life he is equalled or surpassed by the horse and the ox and
living creatures generally. We may therefore separate off
the sensitive life also, as having nothing to do with the
peculiar work of man.
We are left then with the rational life.
But here we must distinguish between the actual and the
IV] DEFINITION OF THE GOOD OR HAPPINESS 29
potential life of reason. A being may be possessed of reason,
and yet not exercise it.
This is the case with a man when
he is asleep or in a trance.
sion of reason, but the exercise of it, that constitutes the
work of man. Epimenides was a great philosopher, and
possessed of the rational life in the highest degree: but no
one would maintain that he was happy for the half century
or more during which, as the story runs, he was asleep in
a cave. That was so much time subtracted from either
happiness or misery. The work of man, therefore, in which
happiness lies, may be said to consist in the exercise of the
mental faculties. We will call it an activity of the soul.'
Now it is not the mere posses-
But the same work, we must remember, may be done
well or ill. A man may exercise his mental faculties amiss,
and this will not bring him happiness, any more than the
good of a harper is shown by his playing the harp badly.
The harper must play the harp well, and man must exercise
his faculties aright. We must therefore say that happiness.
is an activity of the soul in accordance with virtue. Or, if
we consider that there is more than one kind of virtue, then
we must say that happiness is an activity of the soul in
accordance with the best and most perfect virtue.
This might do as a definition of happiness, if man were
independent of external conditions. But since happiness.
can only be realised in life, it is plain that life is indis-
pensable to happiness. A man may be virtuous, and may
exercise his virtue, but if he is cut off in the prime of his
days, we do not talk of happiness in connexion with him.
Rather his virtue increases our sorrow. Now the happiness
of others does not cause sorrow, except to the envious.
Not life then merely, but a full and complete term of life is
necessary to the idea of happiness. For as one swallow
does not make spring, nor yet one day of sunshine, so
neither one day nor any short time makes a man blessed
30
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
and happy. We therefore define happiness as an activity
of the soul in accordance with virtue in a perfect life.
Let this suffice for a sketch of the Good. If we have the
outlines right, we can fill in the details at our leisure, just
as an artist proceeds to bring out the joints and muscles.
after he has first got a correct outline of the human figure.
Others too may aid us in the task, if only the first step has
been rightly taken. For, as the poet says, 'Truth is the
daughter of Time.' Mere lapse of time indeed brings
nothing new to light, but human effort continued through
time at length discovers all things. This is how the
improvements in the arts have been effected. Somebody
first strikes out a bold idea, and then the ingenuity of
successive wits is applied to the elaboration of it.
Let me remind you at this point of a remark which
I made before, but which I deem so important that you must
not be surprised if I should even recur to the same subject
hereafter. It was this-that the same degree of exactness
must not be looked for in all departments of inquiry alike,
but in each in proportion to the subject-matter, and so far
as is appropriate to that particular branch of knowledge.
The carpenter and the geometer have both to do with the
right-angle, but the former is content if he gets it correct
enough for his T-square, whereas the latter has an in-
exhaustible curiosity about its nature and properties. Now
our science is not a speculative but a practical one. There
are many subjects which we may have to touch, but which
we shall not be able to go into, for fear the by-work should
exceed the work. Neither is it possible to ask the reason
why in all cases alike. We must often be content with the
fact, as in the case of first principles. Now the fact
constitutes a starting-point and first principle. For it is
the non-existence or indiscoverability of the reason why
that makes a thing to be a first principle. The moment
IV] DEFINITION OF THE GOOD OR HAPPINESS 31
you give a reason for it, it ceases to be so, and the reason
given takes its place. So that to challenge first principles
is to become involved in an infinite regress. The very
possibility of reasoning therefore implies truths that are
known prior to all reasoning.
THEOPHRASTUS. May I ask how are first principles
known?
ARISTOTLE. Some by induction, some by perception,
some by habituation, in fact different principles in different
ways.
THEOPHRASTUs. Are there any other ways besides those
you have now mentioned?
ARISTOTLE. No, I spoke loosely, and, as a matter of fact
I have already mentioned more first principles than there
can possibly be. For look at the matter in this way. All
reasoning must be either inductive or deductive, by which
I mean that the conclusion must either be wider than the
premisses or not. Now the first principles of deduction are
general truths, which are arrived at by induction; and the
first principles of induction are particular facts, which are
arrived at by perception. All first principles therefore must
be arrived at either by induction or by perception: there is
no room for any third kind. Let me illustrate my meaning
by an example. Things which are equal to the same
thing are equal to one another' is assumed as a first
principle in geometry. If we ask for its evidence, we are
stepping outside the science of geometry, and can only fall
back upon induction, or the bringing in examples of par-
ticular numbers and magnitudes, in which we know it to be
true. But how do we know it to be true in these particular
cases? Why, we see it to be so, and there's an end of it.
When I spoke of first principles being arrived at by
habituation, I was referring to moral truths, which are not
intellectually apprehended at all. You train a child to act
་
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
in a certain way, just as you train a plant to grow. Reason
may come later and supply the reason why, but you want
the right moral training first as the condition of the
successful development of reason.
For us at present, however, the definition of happiness at
which we have now arrived, may be considered the starting-
point and first principle of our inquiry. Let me beg you to
consider it carefully. For if it be correct, a great advance
has already been made. 'Well begun is half done,' as the
saying has it. There are a great many questions which are
sure to present themselves in the course of the inquiry,
which we shall be able to dispose of by a mere reference to
our own definition.
LECTURE V
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, I. 8, 9]
THIS DEFINITION INCLUDES ALL OTHERS: HOW
HAPPINESS IS ATTAINED
IN the last lecture we established our definition on
grounds of reason. Now we will seek to confirm it on
grounds of authority. And this, let me observe, is the
proper way in which to employ the appeal to authority.
Authority can have no force to override arguments from
reason it is itself simply the reason of others. Hence
there is no authority in mathematics, since the direct
appeal to reason is open alike to all. But in more obscure
subjects, where the facts are more difficult to get at, it
greatly strengthens the conviction with which one holds
a conclusion to find that others have arrived at the same
conclusion before one. The proper place therefore for the
argument from authority is at the close of a discussion,
since it has power to reinforce, but not to supersede,
reason.
Now authority, as I have had occasion to remark before,
is of two kinds-
(1) The authority of the few wise;
(2) The authority of the many, whether wise or foolish.
The latter kind of authority has not been sufficiently
recognised. It is chiefly displayed in proverbs and maxims
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and popular sayings, and also in language itself, which is
the record of all men's thoughts. Such things always repay
examination. For though an opinion which is very widely
held is often ridiculously false, yet, depend upon it, there is
a truth at the bottom of it, to account for its general accept-
ance; and this grain of truth it is always worth our while to
seek for, even if it lie hid in a bushel of error. We will,
therefore, again review the opinions that are held on the
subject of happiness, taking account of the popular as well
as of the philosophical. Before we arrived at our own con-
ception of happiness we did this with a view to showing the
inadequacy of current opinions: we will now do so with
a view to showing that, as far as they go, they agree with
our definition. In this way we shall increase our own
belief in its truth. For in proportion as a proposition.
agrees with all others on the same subject, or in other words,
escapes contradiction, there is an increasing probability that
that proposition is true. All facts harmonize with the
truth, whereas the truth is soon found to be at discord with
falsehood.
First, then, for the authority of the many.
(i) Everybody agrees in arranging goods into the follow-
ing three classes—
(1) Goods of the soul,
(2) Goods of the body,
(3) External goods.
This is an opinion which is venerable for its antiquity,
and which enjoys the assent also of the philosophers.
Plato uses it in his Laws, and it is assumed by Socrates in
the Gorgias; we ourselves also have had occasion to employ
it when addressing popular audiences on the subject of the
best life. Now in this division you will observe that goods
of the soul are put highest. Well, this agrees with our
definition for that makes happiness essentially a good of
:
v]
THIS DEFINITION INCLUDES ALL OTHERS 35
the soul—not a good of the body, nor yet an external good;
for external goods are mere potentialities, whereas we made
happiness to consist in activity or actuality.
(ii) Again, nothing is more common on the lips of the
multitude than the saying that 'the happy man lives well
and does well.' But this is just about what our definition
comes to. For when we speak of 'an activity of the soul
in accordance with virtue,' then you have doing well, and
when we add 'in a perfect life,' then you have living well.
Turning now to the more explicit opinions of the wise, we
shall find that our definition leaves room for the various
things that other philosophers have contended for as being
essential to happiness. Take the following five views—
(1) That happiness is virtue ;
(2) That it is wisdom
(3) That it is a kind of philosophy;
(4) That pleasure is an essential ingredient;
(5) That external prosperity is indispensable.
1) You have our friends the Cynics, who would rather be
mad than feel pleasure, saying that happiness is virtue.
Well, we say so too; only that we improve upon their state-
ment. For while they say merely that it is virtue, we say
that it is the exercise of virtue. There would be nothing
on their showing to prevent the virtuous man from being
happy, if he were asleep or in a swoon, whereas we say
that a man must act virtuously, if he is to be happy. At
Olympia they do not single out the handsomest and
strongest men, and confer the prize upon them, without
their entering the lists; and even so no amount of the
passive possession of virtue will entitle a man to the prizes.
of life: he must use his virtue, if he is to win the crown of
happiness.
(2) Socrates was wont to identify wisdom with happiness.
The body, he thought, depended for its good on the soul,
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and the rest of the soul depended for its good on wisdom.
Even moral and intellectual excellences, he maintained,
might conceivably be productive of evil, if they lacked the
right direction which was supplied by wisdom: so that
wisdom was the one thing which was always and invariably
good. Now we shall find as we go on that virtue and
wisdom are inseparable from one another. But happiness
depends upon virtue. Therefore happiness depends upon
wisdom.
(3) Anaxagoras deemed happiness to be an affair of
philosophy rather than of practical wisdom. When he was
asked what made life worth living, he replied, ‘To contem-
plate the heavens and the order of the whole universe.'
Though it is anticipating things rather, I may as well tell
you now that we shall in the end see reason to agree with
Anaxagoras in his conception of happiness, as far at least as
concerns the individual on the divine side of his nature.
And there is nothing in our definition to exclude this view,
nay rather, we have expressly allowed room for it. For
Anaxagoras made happiness to consist in contemplation or
thought, and thought is the exercise of the highest virtue,
which for want of a better name we shall call 'philosophy.'
(4) But there are those who maintain that virtue and
wisdom and philosophy are all very well for those who like
them, but that, if you do not like them, that is, if they are
divorced from pleasure, they cannot constitute happiness
for you. And there is a great deal of force in what
they say. It would seem then that a compromise must
be effected, as indeed we find done in the Philebus,
between the Socratic doctrine that happiness is wisdom,
and the vulgar view that it is pleasure. Neither the one nor
the other by itself is able to satisfy the requirements of the
Highest Good, as being final, adequate, and choiceworthy to
all. But it is only in idea that we can disjoin the two:
v] THIS DEFINITION INCLUDES ALL OTHERS 37
they cannot be separated in reality. For what you love you.
must needs delight in. As horses are a joy to the man who
likes horses, and a sight is a joy to him who is fond of sight-
seeing, so virtue is a joy to the lover of virtue. And it is
here that true pleasure is to be found. For lower delights are
pleasant to some but not to others—men's tastes may differ
with regard to them-but virtue is pleasant in itself. A
difference of tastes is a sign of a perversion of nature. Two
wholly normal and natural minds would agree in the
pleasantness of virtue. So that virtue is pleasant both
relatively to the good and absolutely, or in itself. There-
fore we do not need pleasure to be added to the life of
virtue, in the way you might put on an amulet, for that life
has pleasure inherent in itself.
EUDEMUS. May we not conceive a man living the life
of virtue because he considers that it is right to do so, and
yet finding no pleasure in it?
ARISTOTLE. We may conceive him acting like a virtuous
man, but I deny that such a man would be virtuous. Would
you call a man generous who gave without liking it? Or
would you call a man just who did justice against the grain.
Such men are on their way to becoming just and generous.
If they go on acting as they are doing, they will get to like
it : for pleasure is a mental affection that inevitably associates
itself with our habitual pursuits, so that as an act becomes
habitual, it tends to become pleasurable. And as virtue is
only virtue when it has become a fixed habit, it follows
that virtue is only virtue when it is productive of pleasure.
So that virtuous actions are necessarily pleasant. Aye, and
they are also good and noble, and each of these in the
highest degree, if the good man judges rightly about them,
and he judges as we said. Happiness therefore is the best
and noblest and pleasantest thing, and these attributes are
not severed, as the Delian inscription has it-
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'Noblest is justice, best is health entire;
But sweetest 'tis to gain the heart's desire.'
For all these attributes are comprehended in the best
activities; and it is these, or the one best of these, that we
declare happiness to be.
(5) But then they say that external goods are indis-
pensable; and so they are. Thus we are always brought
down from our flights by the crass conditions of matter.
For though it be disagreeable to the pride of the philosopher
to confess it, we must nevertheless face the fact that we are
to some extent in the hands of Fortune. We need an outfit
for the drama of life: for it is impossible, or, at any rate,
not easy, to act nobly without external appliances. There
are many high deeds from which we may be debarred for
want of instruments, such as friends, wealth, and political
power. These 'properties,' so to speak, it lies with Fortune
to provide or to refuse. Thus Fortune is our Choregus,
albeit Virtue is the true author of our life's drama. If
Fortune cannot make, she can at least mar the performance.
Or do I seem to you to have conceded too much? Then
I will change the metaphor. If Fortune cannot spoil, she
can at least soil our happiness. A dirty coat will serve the
chief purposes of a coat; it will cover you and keep you
warm ; but all the same it is nicer to have a clean one.
Good birth, good children, good looks-none of these
depend upon ourselves, and yet they are in some measure
necessary to happiness. Can you imagine the sage to
be quite calculated for happiness, if he is positively repulsive
in his personal appearance? Or if he is base-born, or
solitary, or childless? How much less if his children are
thoroughly bad, or good-but dead? Let the Cynics then
cry out against us as they will. We shall nevertheless
refuse in the name of common sense to run counter to
obvious fact and universal feeling, and shall include good
v]
39
HOW IS HAPPINESS ATTAINED?
living as well as right doing in our idea of happiness. We
shall, with their leave, conceive of it as the exercise of
virtue under fairly comfortable conditions. This is why we
have added to the definition the words 'in a perfect life,'
by which expression you must understand me to mean, not
merely a fair spell of life, but a life adequately supplied
with external goods. For happiness is in fact a compound
notion, made up of these widely diverse elements—virtue
and prosperity, just as a currency consists in part of pure
gold and in part of base alloy. Herein lies the secret of
that remarkable discrepancy of opinion by which some refer
happiness to good luck and others to virtue.
This opens up for us the question-How is happiness
attained?
It is evident that happiness either depends on man or it
does not. If it does, it must come either by an intellectual
or by a moral effort, for man may roughly be divided into
head and heart. If it does not, it is either allotted to him
by design or it is not. To say that it comes by design is to
say that it is the gift of the Gods; to say that it does not, is
to relegate it to Chance. Thus the following scheme
exhausts, and for safety against cavillers more than
exhausts, the possible modes by which happiness can be
attained.
on our own efforts
Happiness depends
not on our own efforts
{
intellectual
moral
training of some kind
on divine dispensation
on chance.
When we look at the world we undoubtedly see some
men whom, superficially at all events, we should call happy,
and others to whom we should unhesitatingly deny that
name. If we try to penetrate into the cause of this
difference of lot, we sometimes think that there is some-
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thing in the man himself-some power of intelligence or
will-which accounts for his well-being, and sometimes,
failing to find this, we set him down as the favourite of
heaven, and sometimes again we content ourselves with
calling him a lucky fellow.' Similarly in the case of the
unhappy. We sometimes think that a man's misery is due
to some perversity in his own nature; sometimes we are
tempted to believe that his steps are dogged by an evil
genius, and call him 'ill-starred,' and sometimes we merely
regard him as the victim of chance. All these views then
are held as a matter of fact. Let us endeavour to examine
what amount of truth there is in them. And first of the
view which represents happiness as the gift of Heaven.
If there is any gift at all of the Gods to men, we may
surely say that happiness is a divine gift; and the most so
of all human things in proportion as it is the best. But
considerations of this kind belong more properly to the
science of theology. If I were lecturing to you on that
subject, I would unhesitatingly say that happiness is sent
from Heaven. Only I would beg of you not to imagine
that this doctrine is incompatible with the view that it is
the result of human exertions. For the way which the Gods
adopt of giving it to man may be by letting him work for it.
You remember what Epicharmus says—
'Labour is the price at which the Gods sell us all their blessings.'
We turn now to the view which represents happiness as
the chance result of Fortune's lottery. Surely we cannot for
a moment believe this! It would be too jarring a note in
the grand harmony of Nature, if the greatest and noblest of
things were left to the disposal of chance. Nature not only
produces the best result she can, but she produces it also
in the best way; and herein she resembles art and other
modes of causation. Now it is better that happiness should
v]
4I
HOW IS HAPPINESS ATTAINED?
flow from virtue as effect from cause than that it should
depend on chance. Therefore we may reasonably suppose
that of these two ways the former is that in which virtue is
produced. Thus we are thrown back upon the view that
happiness is the result of human effort, being due to virtue,
either intellectual or moral-that point we will not stop
now to determine. This makes happiness divine enough;
for the prize and aim of virtue must needs be something
godlike and blessed. And happiness, being, as I have said,
the prize of virtue, will be open to competition by all who
care to learn the way to acquire it or to submit to the
necessary training. I do not mean that all will achieve it :
but all are free to enter the lists, unless indeed they are
disqualified by some moral infirmity, just as it would be
hopeless for a lame man to think of competing at Olympia.
This view is in accordance with our definition. For we
said that happiness was an activity of the soul in accordance
with virtue. That at least was the gist of our definition: if
we said anything besides, we may leave it out of sight for
the moment. Of the other goods which are recognised in
the popular classification, those of the body must be pre-
supposed, such as health, strength, and longevity, not to
mention a reasonable amount of good looks, while external
goods are by their nature helpful and useful by way of
instruments.
This view is also in accordance with what we said at
starting with regard to ethics being a branch of statecraft.
Statecraft aims at human happiness, and the statesman who
is worthy of the name evidently regards this as depending
chiefly upon virtue, for there is nothing which he has so
much at heart as to render the citizens good and inclined to
noble actions.
Further, this view explains the fact that no one calls
a beast, bird, or fish happy. For none of these are capable
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
of virtuous and rational action. If one of them lives better,
and another worse, it must be owing to some other mode
of participating in good. The same reason which applies
permanently to brutes applies temporarily to children.
They are disqualified for happiness by their tender years.
The utmost they can do is to act rightly at the dictation of
another; but so long as such action is not prompted from
within, it lacks the essential characteristic of virtue. If we
call them happy, it is in the hope that they may live to be
SO. But who can forecast their future?
And this brings us to consider the other side of happiness.
There is need, as we said, not only of perfect virtue but
also of a perfect life. For amid the chances and changes
of life a Priam may preserve his virtue, but lose his
happiness. Now no one calls a man happy, no matter how
prosperous his life may have been, if he fall into signal
misfortunes in his old age and perish miserably.
This subject however we must postpone till our next
lecture.
3
LECTURE VI
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, I. 10-12]
HOW HAPPINESS IS RELATED TO FORTUNE
ARE we to agree with Solon who would have us call no
man happy so long as he is alive, but wait to see what his
end is, and then pronounce judgement upon his career?
Call no man happy so long as he is alive,' said Solon. So
far as the mere words go, this might mean two things—
(1) That a man begins to be happy when he is dead;
(2) That only then can one safely call a man happy as
being beyond the reach of misfortune.
The first meaning is mentioned only to be excluded.
It is plainly not what Solon intended; and it is peculiarly
impossible for us to accept it, as it is in flat contradiction
to our definition. That makes happiness consist in activity,
whereas this interpretation of Solon's words would make
happiness begin when all activity, so far as we can see, is
over.
The second meaning then must be the right one. And
this interpretation raises the whole question of the relation
of happiness to fortune. How far is happiness dependent
upon fortune? According to Solon it is entirely so.
if we really think a man happy, why are we not at liberty to
call him so, so long as he is alive? Evidently because
For
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fortune may change. We must wait then till he is beyond
her power; and then only shall we be safe in calling him
happy.
But on the head of this we may raise the further question
-Are we safe in calling a man happy even when he is
dead? Man, as we have seen, is a social being, and his
happiness cannot be considered as confined to himself.
We must take some account of what happens to his nearest
and dearest even after he is gone. Suppose a man to have
lived happily up to old age and to have gone down to his
grave in honour, and then suppose that, after he is gone,
his son commits some disgraceful act which brands his
name with infamy-would not our notion of his happiness
become tarnished thereby? Should we not shake our
heads over him and say 'Poor man!'
THEOPHRASTUS. If the father is not conscious of the
son's disgrace, I do not see that his happiness would be in
any way affected by it.
ARISTOTLE. Very likely. But that is not our present
point. The question you must remember is not-When is
a man happy? but-When may a man be called happy?
It is a logical and not a theological question that we are
now discussing. The same sort of question may be raised
even with regard to the living. Oedipus was a happy man
in his own estimation. He had solved the riddle of the
Sphinx, had saved the people of Thebes, and had been
rewarded with the hand of the queen; he was prosperous
and beloved. But Teiresias, the seer, knowing that he has
slain his father and married his mother, shudders at the
sight of him and deems him the most miserable of mankind.
Teiresias' notion of Oedipus' happiness was affected by what
was afterwards to happen to Oedipus himself; and our
question is how far our notion of a dead man's happiness
ought to be affected by what afterwards happens to his
VI] HOW HAPPINESS IS RELATED TO FORTUNE 45
descendants.
On the one hand we cannot refuse to let it
be affected to some extent, owing to the social nature
of man.
On the other hand it is absurd to conceive of
the dead man's happiness as chopping and changing with
every turn in the fortunes of his descendants, some of
whom may be happy and prosperous and others the reverse.
There is a difficulty either way. But let us go back to the
discussion of Solon's dictum; it may perhaps throw some
light upon the present question, which is, after all, only
a side-issue.
Are we then always to see the end, and never call a man
happy because he is so, but only because he was? It is
argued that this must be the case on the ground that
happiness is something permanent and by no means liable
to change, whereas the wheel of fortune which deals
a Croesus prosperity and honour may at its next turn bring
him disaster and degradation. We must therefore wait till
the wheel is done turning, else we shall have to call the
same man happy and again miserable many times over.
But I reply that happiness is not thus the sport of fortune.
The happy man is no chameleon, to change his hue with
the sunlight of prosperity or the shade of adversity. His
house is not built on the sand, to fall when the waves come
and the winds blow. No: happiness is a tree which has its
roots deeply fixed in the settled serenity of a virtuous mind.
The blasts of fortune may strip its fair foliage and break its
branches, but the root of the matter is there all the time.
For happiness, as we have seen, has an inner and an outer
side. The inner side is virtue, the outer is prosperity.
But the inner so far transcends the outer in importance
that the latter cannot be weighed in the balance against it.
It is not then in the turns of chance that our weal or woe
lies, but human life has need of the favours of fortune
in addition, whereas it is acting virtuously that determines
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happiness, and the contrary behaviour that determines
misery. This shows how right we were, when framing our
definition, to lay the chief stress upon virtuous activities.
There can be nothing more permanent than they.
THEOPHRASTUs. Pardon me, but I should have thought
there could be nothing less so. Is not an activity a fleeting
thing that comes and goes like a spark struck from a flint?
ARISTOTLE. You are right; but I daresay you can see
what I meant. Your own metaphor supplies an illustration.
The perpetual recurrence of activities points to the existence
of a permanent state underlying them, from which they
proceed, as the sparks prove the existence of the flint.
Virtue then is the most permanent possession that a man
can have-more permanent even than knowledge. After
we have learned a science we may forget it again; the very
elements of it may disappear from the mind; but virtue is
part of the soul's substance-to forget that is to cease to be
yourself. This remark applies to intellectual virtue as well
as to moral virtue. The mental power may remain unim-
paired when the contents of a science, which are adventitious
to the mind, are forgotten. The reason of this stability of
virtue is no doubt to be found in the fact that we are
continually exercising it. A man can hardly be awake for
a moment without performing right or wrong in thought,
word or deed, whereas he is not always exercising himself
in the sciences he may have acquired; and intellectual,
even more than moral, virtue admits of this continuous
exercise.
Therefore we may surely say that the element of stability
is to be found in the happy man, and that he will be such
through life. For always, or more than anything else, will
his acts and thoughts be occupied with virtue. As for the
turns of chance he may be trusted to bear them in the
noblest way, and always, under all circumstances, with
VI] HOW HAPPINESS IS RELATED TO FORTUNE 47
grace-he, I mean, who is truly good and foursquare
without flaw. But the power of chance may of course
be displayed in widely different degrees; and so we must
distinguish. Petty instances, either of good or evil fortune,
manifestly do not suffice to turn the scale of life. But what
if fortune showers her favours upon a man or pelts him
with disasters? Why, in the one case life will be rendered
more blissful, for it cannot be denied that she has power to
lend a lustre to it, and her gifts may be turned to good and
noble uses; in the other case the bliss of life is crushed
and marred for misfortunes bring pains in their train and
prove a hindrance to many activities. Nevertheless even
under these the force of nobility shines out, when a man
bears calmly many great disasters, not from insensibility,
but because he is generous and of a great soul. Setting
happiness then, as we do, not in the outward surroundings.
of a man, but in his inward state, we may fairly say that no
one who has attained to the bliss of virtue will ever justly
become an object of pity or contempt: for he will never do
things that are hateful and vile. The man who is truly
good and wise will bear the turns of chance with a good
grace, and always make the best of his circumstances, just
as a good general makes the most efficient use of the force
that he has at his disposal, and as a good shoemaker makes
the best shoe he can out of the leather supplied to him.
This being so, I say the happy man will never sink so low
as to deserve the name 'wretched,' not that I mean to say
he will be 'blessed,' if he fall into misfortunes like those of
Priam. To say that he is variable and liable to change is
the very last thing that is true of him. For he will not be
stirred from his happiness by any light or ordinary mis-
fortunes, but only by great and crushing calamities; and
from under such as these he will not emerge into happiness
again in any short time, but if at all, in some full-rounded
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period, during which his virtue has proved victorious over
fate. What hinders us then from defining the happy man
as one who displays perfect virtue and is adequately supplied
with external goods, not for any chance period, but for
a complete lifetime? Or ought we to add that his death
must be in keeping with his life? Since the future is dark
to us, and happiness is an idea that involves finality and
completeness. We will, therefore, call those of the living
happy who satisfy our definition: but in calling them
happy we will remember that they are but men. For
perhaps to talk of a 'happy man' may after all be a con-
tradiction in terms, like talking of a 'round square.'
Let so much then suffice for this subject. You see that
I have given you a definition of the happy man in the
concrete, which carries out the definition already given of
happiness in the abstract. But in this second definition
more stress has been laid than in the preceding one upon
the external side of happiness. For our object in introducing
this discussion of Solon's saying has been to bring out as
clearly as may be the relation between happiness and good
fortune.
NICOMACHUS. I am afraid, father, that I am very dull of
apprehension: but I must confess that, in spite of all you
have said, I do not yet fully understand this point, and
should be puzzled to give a clear account of your doctrine,
if I were challenged to do so by the Cynics.
son.
ARISTOTLE. I do not think the fault lies with you, my
The subject is a very obscure one, and I cannot hope
that I have kept my language entirely free from contradiction.
It is easy enough to be logical, if you are ready to disregard
facts: but to face facts and be logical too is a very different
matter. Not that facts can possibly be illogical, for then
they would not be facts; but that it is so hard to adjust
one's thought so as exactly to cover them. Nevertheless
VI] HOW HAPPINESS IS RELATED TO FORTUNE
49
that you may not be wanting in an answer to our opponents,
I will endeavour now to put the matter for you in a nut-
shell. Briefly, my doctrine is this. External goods are
conditions, but not causes, of happiness. They are con-
ditions, because without a certain amount of them, though,
rightly regarded, a surprisingly small amount, happiness
cannot be. They are not causes of happiness, because the
same cause always produces the same effect, so that, given
external goods, happiness ought to follow; whereas we
know that these goods may be present to any extent with-
out happiness resulting from them.
We must revert now for a moment to a question which
arose incidentally, namely, how far the dead are affected
by the fortunes of their descendants and of their friends
generally. We were discussing it before on purely logical
grounds, but there is always the popular belief to be
reckoned with, derived from Homer, of a dim sort of
consciousness possessed by the dead. It is difficult to
know what to say on this subject. On the one hand,
to deny that the dead are affected at all seems too cold
a doctrine and contrary to current opinion. On the other
hand, in view of the infinite diversity of the effects of
fortune, and how some come home to us much more than
others, we are in danger of being led astray into endless
discussion, if we attempt to determine the particular im-
portance of each. We must be content therefore with some
rough general statement. The distinction which we drew
before between the lighter misfortunes, which do not suffice
to turn the scale of life, and the heavier which do, may be
extended now from the individual to his friends. And then
there is another point which should be taken account of,
namely, the difference of vividness that there may be between
the consciousness of the dead and that of the living. When
you see some tragedy or atrocity represented on the stage
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you are far more profoundly affected than when you are
merely informed of it in the prologue; and the same sort of
difference, we may surmise, exists between the sensations
of the spectators who are present at the play of life, and
those who have reached home before them and require to
be told what the performance has been. Or does the tale
ever reach them, to disturb their slumbers? This, after all,
we cannot be sure of. But even if it does, we may assume
that it is a tale of little meaning by the time it reaches them.
So that on the whole we may conclude that the dead are
affected to some extent, whether for good or evil, by the
fortunes of their descendants, but not so far as to change
the happiness of those who have been happy in their own
lives into misery or-do anything else of the kind.
We have already had occasion to classify goods from
various points of view. We divided them first, at the
suggestion of Eudemus, into the essential and the useful.
Then we classified them from the point of view of finality
into (1) ends only, (2) ends and means, (3) means only.
Afterwards we saw reason to introduce the popular three-
fold division, into goods of the soul, goods of the body and
external goods. Now I must call your attention to yet
another threefold division of goods into-
The admirable,
The praiseworthy,
Potentialities.
It will be worth our while to examine this division with
a view to clearing up our ideas about happiness.
The first point then to be noticed about this threefold
division is that it rests upon a previous twofold division.
Goods, it is assumed to begin with, are either actually good
or only potentially so. Of the latter kind are such things as
wealth and power, which may be good or evil according
as they are used well or ill. We however reckon even these
VI] HOW HAPPINESS IS RELATED TO FORTUNE 51
potentialities as goods, since we judge of a thing's nature
from the use made of it by the wise and good man. But it is
manifest that happiness does not fall into this class, since it
is unconditionally good. So that we must look for it on
the side of actual goods, which are distinguished into the
admirable and the praiseworthy.
Admirable
Actual
Good
Praiseworthy
Potential
Let us try to lay a finger on the exact point of difference
between the two.
You praise a thing because it is good for something: but
a thing may be so good as to be good for nothing. To be
called 'good for nothing' is at once the highest compliment
and the deepest disgrace. It is the deepest disgrace, if it
is used of a thing which was meant to serve some end, but
which altogether fails to attain it; it is the highest compli-
ment, if it indicates that a thing is an end in itself. Praise
then or commendation is bestowed upon things in so far as
they are means to something beyond themselves, whereas
in so far as they are ends in themselves, they are above
praise. Thus you see that we praise a thing on the ground
of qualities which look beyond itself, that is, because it stands
in a certain relation to some good and worthy end. And
notice also that we praise a thing with a view to results.
Praise is a sort of investment. You lay out so much praise,
and expect a return of good conduct. Thus we praise the
just and brave man, and the good man generally, in order
to make them the keener to perform virtuous acts. Hence
praise, or commendation, is out of place in relation to the
Gods. They are above praise, and to praise is to degrade
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them. It amounts to patting them on the back and saying,
'You are very good for certain ends '—ourselves presumably
-which is not the right attitude of mind to assume towards
them.
Since praise then is of this essentially relative nature, it
is easy to see that it does not attach to the highest things.
We must find something greater and better than praise, to
express our sense of their perfection. This something
greater we may call admiration or honour: but the same
idea is expressed, when we pronounce a thing blessed and
happy. These are the terms that are rightly applied to the
Gods; and we apply them also to the men whom we think
most to resemble the Gods. The same thing is true of
goods. You praise justice because it conduces to happiness.
But you do not praise happiness itself-it is above praise:
you simply call it blessed, as being something diviner and
better. Eudoxus used a very good argument in urging the
claim of pleasure to the highest place. He maintained that
the fact of its not being praised, though a good, was a proof
that it was above the things that are praised, and of this
nature, he contended, are only God and the good, they
being the ends to which all other things are referred as
means.
THEOPHRASTUs. Would Eudoxus allow two goods in the
highest class?
ARISTOTLE. It is quite conceivable that he might have
said that these two are one, God being the good after which
all nature is striving.
NICOMACHUS. It seems to me, father, that the threefold
division of goods which you have been discussing coincides
with our own triple classification of goods in order of
finality.
ARISTOTLE. Roughly speaking, you may say it does. The
admirable are ends only; the praiseworthy are means and
VI] HOW HAPPINESS IS RELATED TO FORTUNE 53
ends; the potentialities are means only. But it would not
be worth while to insist on this identification of the two
divisions, if logical objections were urged against it.
EUDEMUS. You have distinguished so clearly for us.
between praise and admiration, that I wish you would
explain the meaning of a third term which is often used,
I mean 'encomium.'
There
ARISTOTLE. It is going a little off the point to do so, but
all the same I will endeavour to meet your wishes.
is a distinct species of poetry which goes under that name,
of which you have instances in the Odes of Pindar, and
I daresay you remember the parody on the same kind of
composition which Aristophanes has given in the Clouds,
where Strepsiades sings an encomium upon himself.
If we
were defining the various kinds of poetry, we should have to
go carefully into this subject. But for the present it will
suffice to say that an encomium, which is the same thing as
a eulogy or panegyric, is pronounced upon some achieve-
ment, whether bodily or mental, whereas praise is bestowed
upon qualities. Thus you praise a man for being a good
runner or a good wrestler: but you reserve your encomium
upon him until he has won the race or proved victor in the
arena. Encomia may be bestowed either on the living or
the dead but praise is proper only to the living, for it is
meant as an incentive to virtue on the part of him to whom
it is addressed. We may arrange the three modes of lauda-
tion in ascending order in this way—
:
Encomia are bestowed upon good acts, which lead to the
formation of virtuous states;
Praise is bestowed upon virtuous states, which lead to
happiness;
Admiration is reserved for happiness, which leads to
nothing.
As the act both precedes and follows the state, encomia
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may come before or after praise, as you please. It was
only for the sake of symmetry that we put them first.
One word more before concluding this lecture. We set
down happiness as admirable on the ground that it is an
end or final cause; but happiness may equally be regarded
as a beginning or efficient cause, since it is the desire for it
that impels us to act. Thus happiness is the beginning
and the end-the Alpha and the Omega-of life.
LECTURE VII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, I. 13]
DIVISIONS OF THE SOUL: VIRTUE PROVISIONALLY
DEFINED
FROM happiness we must now go on to virtue, which is
the chief factor in it. The first great step towards the com-
pletion of our design was made when we defined happiness;
another great step will have been made, if we can succeed
in defining virtue: for the second definition is sure to give
us an insight into the first. Moreover, the inquiry will be
entirely in accordance with our original purpose.
For we
referred the highest good to the science of statecraft, and,
as I said before, the supreme concern of the genuine states-
man is with virtue. We may see this from the example
of the Cretan and Lacedaemonian lawgivers and any others
who have attempted to satisfy the ideal of statecraft.
When we talk of virtue, it must, of course, be understood
that we mean the virtue of man: for it was the good of
man that we were in search of and the happiness of man.
And when we talk of the virtue of man, it must be understood
that we mean the virtue of the soul, not of the body,
happiness with us being an activity of the soul. In order
then that we may understand virtue, it is necessary that we
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should know something about the soul. The doctor who
intends to specialise on the eye first spends pains on
acquiring a knowledge of the whole body; and the same
care must be displayed by the statesman with regard to
a knowledge of the soul, or rather much more care, inas-
much as his art is concerned with things of greater moment
than that of the physician. The statesman may be regarded
as a mental oculist, since the statesman's concern is with
education, and the ultimate object of education is the
developement of intellect, and intellect we declare to be
the eye of the soul.
But when we say that the statesman must know some-
thing about the soul, it must not be supposed that he need
trouble himself about the subtleties of psychology. The
amount of knowledge that he requires is strictly limited
by his practical purpose, which is to develope virtue in the
citizens. A broad grasp of the subject, provided it be
correct, is quite sufficient for this end. We need go no
further into the subject now than to repeat some of the
statements that are contained in our popular lectures. For
instance, we are in the habit of dividing the soul into two
parts-
(1) Irrational.
(2) Rational.
THEOPHRASTUS. Are we to understand that these are
really distinct, or only two different ways of looking at the
same thing?
ARISTOTLE. You have asked me a difficult question, but
fortunately it is of no importance to our present purpose to
answer it.
Plato at all events thought that the parts of the
soul were really distinct: for he made the rational resident
in the head and the irrational in the breast and stomach.
But, after all, the two may be no more really distinct than
the convex and the concave of a circle, which are absolutely
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DIVISIONS OF THE SOUL
the same thing looked at from opposite points of view,
especially if we remember that the circumference, which is
supposed to separate them, is a line without breadth. So
in the case of man, we divide him into reason and feeling-
intellect and emotions-head and heart: but may it not
all the time simply be the man thinking and the man
feeling? But let us return to our division.
Growth is
You do not
On the irrational side we unhesitatingly put down that
part of the soul which is common to us with the plants,
I mean the cause of nutrition and growth.
a thing with which reason has nothing to do.
will your growth, and no man in his senses sits down to
deliberate about it. These vegetative functions of the soul
are possessed as much by an embryo, in which reason is
not developed, as by the deepest philosopher.
THEOPHRASTUs. I see that you do not think the principle
of growth to be different from the vital principle generally.
ARISTOTLE. No: it is hardly necessary to suppose that.
The same principle may fairly be held competent to do the
work both of growing and living. We ought never to multiply
causes unnecessarily. But this part of the soul with its
powers has nothing to do with the virtue of man as man.
The best proof of this is that this part is most active in
sleep, which is just the time when the good and bad man
are least distinguishable, whence it is said that for half
their life there is no difference between the happy and the
miserable. And this statement is true enough. For sleep
may be defined as the inactivity of the moral sense.
sleep the reason and will are quiescent, while the desires
and passions often run riot uncontrolled. But whenever
these turbulent movements reach the higher principle, it
reasserts its sway: so that some difference may be detected
between the dreams of the virtuous and those of ordinary
folk. However, we may quit this subject, since the vegeta-
In
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tive functions, whether displayed in growing or merely in
repairing the waste of the body, can play no part in the
virtue special to man.
On the rational side of the soul we should unhesitatingly
put down intellect, which alone possesses reason in the
strict sense of the words.
Neither the vegetative principle then in man nor yet the
intellect need cause us any trouble in our division. But there
is a third nature in the soul, to which it is not so easy to
assign its proper place. I refer to the appetites and pro-
pensities, to the feelings, emotions, passions --call them what
you will—to the something in man which stirs him to action,
which I should sum up under the one head of 'impulse.'
For reason, you must know, is not a principle of action. It
does not move you except in the sense in which a candle
moves you in the dark, by showing you where you are
going. If you could divest yourself of passion altogether,
you would never act at all, but only speculate. So that
those who would fain reduce man to a being of pure reason
would destroy his nature as man.
To which side of the soul then are we to refer these
appetites and so on? To the rational or the irrational ?
They are certainly distinct from reason, and are often
strongly opposed to it, or rather, to speak accurately, they
are opposed to the desire which is enlightened by reason.
If I talk of the passions being opposed to reason, you must
understand me to be using a shorthand expression. We
talk thus both of the man who possesses self-control and of
him who lacks it. In both the light of reason shines clear
and points them to the better course; in both also there is
something else present which fights and strives against
reason. But in the former the result of the struggle is the
victory of reason over passion, and in the latter the victory
of passion over reason.
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DIVISIONS OF THE SOUL
NICOMACHUS. Can you explain to us, father, how there
can thus be opposing inclinations in man, especially if, as
you seemed to say just now, his nature is essentially one?
ARISTOTLE. I cannot, my son: but still you will have
to believe it, for it is a fact. To explain a thing is to show
that it does not stand alone-that it is like other things
with which we are more familiar. Now I do not know that
we can adduce anything which is really like this curious
fact of the coexistence of opposite inclinations in the same
human agent; but still the fact is there, and so we must
believe it, though we cannot explain or even comprehend it.
The most that I can do to throw light upon the subject
is to bring forward an imperfect analogy from the body.
There are certain forms of paralysis in which, when men
will to move their limbs to the right, they find them going
off on the contrary to the left. There may be something
similar to this in the soul, although we cannot see it; and
the man whom we call lacking in self-restraint, whose
impulses run counter to his reason, may be said to be
suffering from a kind of moral paralysis. But, to return to
the division of the soul. If we regard the feelings as
belonging to the irrational side, the scheme that I am
about to draw for you will represent the result at which we
have arrived.
Irrational
Soul
=
Rational Intellect
Vegetative
Impulsive
This is, I suppose, the strict logic of the thing, since the
feelings, which we have called 'the impulsive part' are not
rational. And yet, after all, they have more to do with
reason than with the plant-life in the soul. For though
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they do not possess reason in themselves, they are still
capable of obeying it, which the merely vegetative powers
of the soul are not. In the man of self-restraint they do
thus obey reason; and they do so still more perfectly in the
ideally temperate and brave man : for in him all things are
in harmony with reason. He differs from the man of
self-restraint in requiring no struggle to subdue his feelings.
The feelings then also may be said in a sense to have
reason, if a child may be said to have it, when he obeys
reason in a father or in friends who are wiser than himself.
And that the feelings may thus be worked upon by reason
is shown by the fact of admonition, and of rebuke and
exhortation generally. At all events it will suit our purpose
better to transfer the feelings to the rational side of the
soul, and so subdivide that instead of the other part. In
either case we shall arrive ultimately at the same three
species, and the first step will be identical in both methods
of division.
Irrational
the vegetative part
Soul
Rational
In a secondary sense
==
the impulsive part
In the strict sense
= intellect
We consider then that the rational part of the soul is two-
fold, the one possessing reason in the strict sense of the
term, that is to say, in itself, the other after the fashion
of a child that is capable of hearkening to a father.
Virtue also, which it was our object to investigate, may
be divided on the same principle. There are the virtues,
or excellences, of the rational part proper, which we shall
call the intellectual virtues, and the virtues of the semi-
rational part, which we shall call the moral virtues. The
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61
DIVISIONS OF THE SOUL
feelings, you will observe, have no virtue in themselves:
their virtue is to be under the control of reason. As
instances of intellectual virtues we may take philosophy,
intelligence, and wisdom; as instances of moral virtues.
liberality and temperance. If we wish to praise a man
morally, we do not say that he is philosophical or intelligent,
but that he is gentle or temperate, or something of that
sort, which involves a reference to his feelings. But still
we praise the philosopher also on the score of his state
of mind; and virtues generally may be defined as praise-
worthy mental states. It will be our business in succeeding
lectures to see wherein precisely this praiseworthiness of
virtue consists. But for the present we may take this as
a rough definition of virtue.
LECTURE VIII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, II. 1, 2]
VIRTUE COMES BY HABIT: CHARACTERISTICS OF
THE ACTS WHICH TEND TO FORM IT
As a result of our examination of the soul we divided
virtue into two kinds-moral and intellectual. These two
forms of excellence differ in many points from one another,
but perhaps in nothing more markedly than in this. Intel-
lectual virtue owes its origin and growth for the most
part to teaching-not that nature and habit have not
also something to do with it—and therefore it needs ex-
perience and time, whereas moral virtue comes from habit.
Our word for it, as you know, is etymologically connected
with habit.
We shall examine later on the perfection of the intellectual
part of the soul, but for the present, and indeed for a long
time to come, we shall confine ourselves to that of the
emotional and moral part.
Now the first point which I wish to insist upon is that
moral virtue comes, as I have said, by habit or practice.
It does not therefore come by nature, in which case it would
be wholly out of our own power. This is a point of so
much importance that I shall bring forward four arguments
VIRTUE COMES BY HABIT
€3
to prove it. First, take them in brief for convenience of
remembrance, and let me elaborate them later.
Moral virtue does not come by nature; for, if it did-
(1) it would be invariable like the laws of nature;
(2) the capacity would precede the act, whereas the act
precedes the capacity;
(3) lawgivers would not lay such stress upon training;
(4) it would not depend upon conduct.
(1) Fire struggles up to heaven, which is its proper
abode; a stone, if left unsupported, moves down to earth,
to rejoin the mass of its kindred nature. This is the
natural and necessary motion of each. Could you train
fire to burn down or a stone to fall up? Suppose I were
to take this stone and throw it into the air, and were to
continue to do so, with necessary intervals for rest and
refreshment, for the remainder of my natural life; and
then were to appoint you, my son, or Eudemus or Theo-
phrastus here, to succeed me in the task of educating this
stone: do you think that, after any amount of training, we
should get it into the habit of falling up? No: we are
so convinced of the futility of the attempt that we shall not
devote our energies to trying the experiment. The virtues
therefore obviously are not natural in this way, since nothing
which is by nature can be altered by training. But you
must not imagine me to mean that the virtues exist in us
through any violation of nature. Nature fits us for receiving
them, but they must be acquired by practice.
(2) Again, when a thing comes by nature, the capacity
precedes the act, as in the case of the senses. We do not
acquire the senses of sight or hearing by often seeing or often
hearing on the contrary, a child comes into the world with
a capacity of seeing—it opens its eyes and it sees.
It may
require a good deal of practice before it interprets rightly
what it sees, but the mere act of seeing is perfect from the
:
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first.
Or again, take. sneezing. That is a thing which
comes by nature. We do not acquire the power of sneezing
by repeatedly attempting to sneeze: but rather we have the
power fully formed, and exert it when occasion calls for it.
Now we do not come into the world with this sort of capacity
for virtue. We come into the world with a blank capacity,
so to speak, for turning out virtuous or vicious according
to the training we receive. Hence in the case of the virtues
the act must precede the capacity. By 'capacity' now
I mean a formed capacity-in other words, a state or
habit. Virtue in this respect resembles art, to which it
bears so close an analogy in other ways. The thing which
has to be done when learnt is learnt by doing it. As the
harper acquires his art by repeatedly fingering his instru-
ment, so by repeatedly checking our appetites we become
temperate, and by repeatedly encountering dangers we
become brave.
(3) Furthermore, it is evident that lawgivers do not
regard virtue as coming by nature. For they concentrate
their efforts on making the citizens good by training. This
at least is the intention of every lawgiver: if he fails to
carry it out, he misses his mark. It is just herein, namely,
in the success or otherwise, of the attempt at moral training
of the citizens, that the goodness or badness of political
institutions really lies.
(4) Lastly, virtue does not come by nature, because it
depends on the way in which we ourselves behave under
certain circumstances whether a virtue is formed in us or
not. The very same set of circumstances constantly re-
curring may lead to the formation of a virtue or a vice.
And the same is true of art. From playing on the harp
men do not always turn out good harpers, but very often
bad ones; and both good and bad bricklayers are made
so by the laying of bricks. Again, how is it that one
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VIRTUE COMES BY HABIT
acquires a good hand in writing? It is the effect of
constant practice. And how do we spoil our handwriting?
That is the effect of constant practice too. All depends
upon the way in which the thing is done. If this were not
so, there would be no advantage in teaching: but all would
have been good or bad craftsmen from birth. Now transfer
what I have been saying to moral virtue. It is according
to the way in which we behave in our dealings with men
that we become some of us just and some of us unjust,
and according to our conduct under danger, and by ac-
customing ourselves to feel fear or confidence, that we
become some brave and some cowards. Precisely the
same thing holds true with regard to the appetites and
feelings of anger. By constantly controlling these impulses.
we shall form in ourselves habits of temperance and gentle-
ness, whereas, if we repeatedly give way to them, we shall
become intemperate and passionate. In one word, the
moral habits are generated by a repetition of like acts:
for such as the acts are, such will be the habits or states
that result from them. Do not imagine that any act of
your lives is indifferent; it will go to rivet you in a habit
either of virtue or vice. You see then the tremendous
importance of training, especially in tender years. It makes
almost the whole difference between the good man and the
bad, and therefore largely determines our weal or woe.
I have told you before that the course of lectures on
which we are at present engaged has not a purely theoretical
or speculative object like the rest. We are not inquiring.
now what virtue is out of a mere curiosity to know, but
in order that we may become good; else we might just
as well have left the subject alone, for any practical benefit
that we should derive from it. Now the doctrine which we
have just reached of the formation of mental states out of
individual acts has an intensely practical bearing. It
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behoves us then to examine closely the nature of the acts
which go to form a habit of virtue. I will lay down three
characteristics of these acts, to which it seems worth while
to draw your attention
(1) They comply with the standard of reason;
(2) They observe a mean between excess and defect;
(3) They tend to reproduce themselves.
(1) The first of these attributes we must leave in all its
vagueness for the present, and simply take for granted.
We may have an opportunity of explaining what is meant
by 'the standard of reason,' and its relation to moral virtue,
when we come to treat of the perfection of the intellect.
But let me here repeat a warning that I have given before,
and remind you that in dealing with any subject such an
amount of precision of statement, and such an amount
only, must be expected as is in keeping with the matter
in hand. Now questions of conduct and expediency have
no more fixity than questions of health. What is whole-
some for one may be unwholesome for another; and
similarly what is right for one may be wrong for another.
Do not misunderstand me, as if I wished to drive you into
sheer Protagoreanism by declaring that all is relative to the
individual. It is not so in medicine, which I used as an
analogy. For though it is quite true to say that one man's
meat is another man's poison, still there are some things
which will poison everybody. You never find yourself
asking a friend to drink a pint of hemlock with you; and
again, though a man may live on milk or rice, he will
not hold soul and body together on sawdust. All that
I want to insist upon is the broad difference that must
exist between a science which deals with necessary, and
one, like ours, which deals with contingent truth. State-
ments about feelings and actions, which constitute the
content of ethical science, can only have the same amount
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VIRTUE COMES BY HABIT
But feelings and
of definiteness as their subject-matter.
actions are concrete and particular-not, like mathematical
notions, abstract and universal. Any given feeling must be
manifested, and any given action take place, under par-
ticular circumstances: but these circumstances admit of
such variety that they may indefinitely alter the right and
wrong with regard both to feelings and actions. Only the
most general statements then must be looked for in the
subject of morals. We can no more map out a man's
conduct beforehand in the multitudinous circumstances of
life than we can lay down rules for medicine and navigation
which will save all deliberation in particular cases. The
doctor and the pilot learn certain general principles, but
they are called upon to exercise their own judgement in
applying them. So it is in morals. Nevertheless we must
do our best with our science, and try to attain such exact-
ness as we may.
(2) Here, then, is a broad generalization which I think
can safely be made, namely, that moral excellence is
destroyed alike by excess and defect. The same thing
may be observed in the case of strength and health; for
we must use what we can see as an illustration of what
we cannot see. Too much exercise or too little impairs
strength; too much meat and drink or too little impairs
health; it is the right proportion in either case that
produces and increases and preserves them. So it is in
the case of temperance and courage and the virtues
generally. If you run away from everything, and are
afraid of everything, and stand your ground against nothing,
you become a coward, whereas if you fear nothing at all,
but make for every adversary, you become foolhardy.
Similarly he who takes his fill of every pleasure and
abstains from none becomes intemperate, whereas he who
shuns all becomes stolid, like the stupid rustic of the
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.
stage. For temperance and courage are destroyed by
excess or defect, but preserved by moderation.
(3) We have seen already that virtue is both produced and
destroyed from the same set of circumstances, and we have
now to add that it displays itself in the same field in which
it was formed. The analogy of strength may be used again
to illustrate this point. Strength is acquired by taking
a quantity of food and undergoing a great many labours.
And what does it enable the strong man to do? Why,
to take a quantity of food and undergo a great many
labours. Similarly in the case of virtue. By repeatedly
withstanding temptations to indulgence we establish a habit
of self-control, and, when once it is established, it finds
its exercise in enabling us the more easily to withstand
temptations, until at last the temptation ceases to be felt.
The same is true of courage. It is by accustoming our-
selves to despise terrors and endure them that we become
brave, and, when we have become so, we shall be best
able to despise terrors. Thus the act tends to produce
the state and the state to reproduce the act.
LECTURE IX
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, II. 3, 4]
THE RELATION OF VIRTUE TO PLEASURE: THE
ANALOGY BETWEEN VIRTUE AND ART: REFUTA-
TION OF AN OBJECTION AGAINST THE DOCTRINE
THAT VIRTUE IS ACQUIRED BY HABIT
LET me give you a practical test whereby you may judge
whether a moral virtue is formed in you or not.
Ask your-
self whether the act, to which it leads, is attended with
pleasure or pain. The man who can abstain from bodily
pleasures and take delight in so doing, is temperate;
whereas the man who abstains, but with reluctance, is
intemperate. Similarly the man who endures dangers, and
feels positive pleasure in so doing, or at all events is not
pained, is brave, whereas he who is pained is a coward.
THEOPHRASTUS. It seems rather hard to call a man who
abstains from pleasure intemperate, and a man who endures
danger a coward. I daresay many a man who has received
the prize of valour did not at all enjoy the process by which
it was achieved.
ARISTOTLE. Your remark is a perfectly just one, and
confess that my language was loose. Let us say rather
that the man who abstains from pleasure, although he
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does not like doing so, is not temperate; and that the
man who dislikes facing danger is not brave. Our virtues
are ideal, and if they do not happen to fit the heroes and
sages of the period, so much the worse for those heroes
and sages. But of course we would award their due meed
of praise to both the characters that have been mentioned.
The state of mind of the man who abstains from improper
pleasures, but does so with reluctance, is what we de-
nominate self-control. It is the halfway house to temper-
ance. If a man persists in restraining base desires, he will
ultimately pass into the state of temperance, in which there
are no base desires to restrain: but till then he is not
virtuous in the ideal sense of the term, though it may
be that self-control is the highest virtue, of which any of
us, as a matter of fact, is capable. We have no name for
the state of mind of the man who faces while he fears
danger. But that stands in the same relation to courage
as self-control does to temperance. And similarly there
are other states which serve as a threshold to the other
virtues, as for instance, the state of mind of him who
gives liberally, from a sense of right, although he does
not enjoy giving. But, as I was saying, if you want to
know whether you have achieved a virtuous state, see
whether the act is pleasant or painful to you. If it brings
you pleasure, you may assume that the habit is formed;
if it still seems irksome, you had better practise further.
This is one way in which moral virtue is concerned with
pleasure and pain. But we may go further, and say that
it is wholly concerned with those feelings, and would have
no meaning apart from them. This point is one which
requires to be established in due form by reasoning. So
you may take the following arguments-
(1) Pleasure tempts us into wrong and pain deters us
from right.
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THE RELATION OF VIRTUE TO PLEASURE
But virtue is concerned with right and wrong.
.. Virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain.
Thus we see that virtue may be considered to consist
in the due regulation of pleasure and pain; and the right
education, as Plato says, is nothing more than training
children to feel pleasure and pain on the proper occasions;
'to hate what they ought to hate from first to last, and
to love what they ought to love.'
(2) Virtue is concerned with feelings and acts.
But every feeling and every act is attended with pleasure
or pain.
.. Virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain.
Every act is prompted by a feeling of some kind, and we
maintain that there is no feeling which is purely indifferent,
but that every feeling must involve some amount, no matter
how small, of pleasure or pain. Indeed it is this which
distinguishes feeling from the other contents of the mind.
(3) The next argument I cannot state so concisely as the
two former. You know that remedies act through contraries.
Now punishments are a sort of remedies - they are a kind
of moral medicine, which is administered with a view to
supplanting the disease of the soul, which is vice, by its
health, which is virtue. To this end the pleasure that
uninstructed persons take in wrong actions has to be
corrected by the pains of the law. It follows therefore that
virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain.
(4) I told you the day before yesterday that virtue and
vice arise out of the same set of circumstances, and that
a state displays itself in the same field in which it was
formed. Every mental state therefore has a natural relation
to that by which it is made better or worse.
Now mental states are made better or worse by pleasure
and pain.
.. Mental states have a natural relation to pleasure and pain.
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But virtue is a mental state.
.. Virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain.
Consider within yourselves by what means virtue is likely
to be impaired. Is it not by the ill-regulated pursuit and
avoidance of pleasure and pain, when we either seek or shun
such as we ought not, or at a time when we ought not, or in
a way we ought not ?—I need not specify further conditions,
as I am not seeking now to make a guarded statement.
But a great many people, for want of attending to these
limitations, rush off with the notion that since feeling is
thus inimical to virtue, feeling must be wholly bad. Conse-
quently they are ready to define the virtues offhand as
'apathies' and 'quietudes.' But here they err. For it
is not the extirpation of feeling, but the regulation of feeling
that has to be aimed at.
The arguments which I have already given you are,
I think, quite sufficient to prove the intimate connexion
of virtue with pleasure and pain; but still it would be
possible to add to them, if it were worth our while to do so.
As a result of them we may now substitute for the former
vague definition of virtue as a praiseworthy mental state,
a more full, though still not a final definition of moral
virtue as 'that state of mind which tends to the best course of
action with regard to pleasures and pains'; and vice may be
defined as the opposite of this. Of course you will under-
stand that all I have been saying refers to moral virtue.
Intellectual virtue may be connected with pleasure, but
it is pleasure of a wholly different kind.
NICOMACHUS. May I try, father, by way of practice, if
I can add anything to what you have said, though it will
be only like a tiny rill returning its water to the ocean?
ARISTOTLE. By all means, my son. I am delighted
that you should propose it. For in learning the mind
should be active and not merely passive. Practice is as
IX] THE RELATION OF VIRTUE TO PLEASURE 73
important as instruction, just as exercise is no less necessary
to health than food.
NICOMACHUS. Here then is my first argument.
(5) There are three motives that lead to choice, the
right, the useful, and the pleasant; and three that lead
to avoidance, the opposites of these, namely, the wrong,
the hurtful, and the painful. Now the right is never without
pleasure to the good man, and the useful, though it may be
painful at the moment, is pleasant in the prospect of the
advantage that will result from it: so that the three motives
of choice may in a sense be summed up under the one
head of pleasure. Again, the wrong is always painful to
a good man, and the hurtful, however pleasant it may be at
the moment, is painful in the prospect of evil consequences
to come: so that the three motives for avoidance may
again be summed up in a sense under the one head of pain.
But virtue is concerned with choice and avoidance.
.. Virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain.
ARISTOTLE. Well reasoned, Nicomachus! There is
something broad and philosophical about your line of
argument. Heaven grant that you may live to hold up the
torch of truth, when it comes to my turn to hand it on
in the race! You are quite right in maintaining that all
motives for choice are in a certain sense resolvable into
pleasure. But the many go wrong where you go right.
You say that the right and the useful are pleasant: they
convert this proposition, and think that the pleasant is
right and useful. And then you have gone to the bottom
of the matter in tracing choice to pleasure: for the lower
animals exercise choice, and they know nothing of the
right and useful. But I can see from your face that you
have more to add, so I will not interrupt you again until
you have done.
NICOMACHUS. I am afraid my other arguments will not
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meet your approval so well as the first. But I will give
them for what they are worth.
(6) The love of pleasure is bred in the bone of us all
from our babyhood, so that it is difficult to erase this feeling
which is ingrained into our life. Virtue therefore cannot
but be concerned with pleasure.
(7) We all of us more or less make pleasure and pain the
rule of our actions.
But virtue is concerned with actions.
.. Virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain.
(8) Lastly, it is hard to contend against pleasure, harder
even than against anger, though Heracleitus says that a man
will give his life to gratify that.
Now the harder a thing is, the more virtue there is in
doing it.
.. Virtue is concerned with pleasure.
ARISTOTLE. No, I do not think that these arguments
are equal to the first but then it was hardly to be expected
that they should come up to it. Indeed if you had had
many more as good as that, I might as well have asked you
to continue these lectures for me. Your second and third
arguments only repeat what is already contained in the one
which I gave you second. At the same time they do
something to strengthen it, so I am glad you gave them.
Your last argument is more interesting, because it offers
more scope for discussion, being somewhat liable to miscon-
struction. You say the more difficulty there is the more
virtue there is, and, you might have added, the more art,
for here, again, the analogy between virtue and art holds
good. In the sense in which you mean it this is quite true.
For to do the difficult with ease is the perfection both
of art and virtue. But if any one misunderstood you to
mean that to do right with difficulty was virtue, he would
fall into a vulgar error. It is only the road to virtue that is
IX] THE RELATION OF VIRTUE TO PLEASURE
75
rough; virtue herself dwells in fair pastures lighted by the
sun. It is not essential either to art or virtue to contend
with difficulties-that is only an accident of the situation-
but to produce the best result in the best, that is, the easiest
way. And yet there is a very prevalent idea to the contrary.
I have often put this case to people-Given two men,
one with a bad temper and another with a good, both
of whom act with perfect gentleness under trying circum-
stances, which is the more virtuous ?—and have generally
received the answer that, of course, the man who controlled
his bad temper was the more virtuous, and that little or no
credit was due to the other. But this is to confound the
idea of 'the meritorious' with that of the virtuous.' The
virtuous may be always meritorious without the meritorious
being always virtuous. To think of calling a man 'good.'
because he has bad impulses! It is true we praise the man
with a naturally bad temper more than the other. But
why? To help him to overcome his bad temper, so that
eventually he may become like the other. We encourage
the man who is toiling up the hill, but the object, after all,
is to be at the top. Virtue really only begins when all
difficulty has vanished. But by that time we cease to praise,
because virtue then has turned into bliss.
However, we have managed to wander from the point,
which was the intimate connexion of moral virtue with
pleasure and pain. This position may, I think, be con-
sidered to be more than established by this time. We may
say that to deal rightly or wrongly with pleasure and pain is
the sum and substance of virtue and vice. And if this
is the concern of virtue, it must also be the concern of
statecraft. Pleasure and pain, as Plato tells us, are the
two well-springs of weal or woe, according as their waters.
are dispensed, both to state and individual and to every
creature that has life.
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Besides the connexion of virtue with pleasure and pain,
we may also be considered to have established the point
that both virtue and vice are formed under the same
circumstances and continue to act in the field in which they
were formed. There are other points on which we have
dwelt or touched, namely, the accordance of virtue with
reason, the necessity of avoiding excess and defect, and the
doctrine of habits: but to these we will return again.
EUDEMUS. I have all along felt a difficulty with regard
to the doctrine of habits, which I should like to put into
words, in order that you may remove it for me.
ARISTOTLE. You will help us much, if you will do so.
For if I can meet your objections, it will go a long way
towards establishing the truth. To refute a proposition is
the same thing as to establish its contradictory. If you
disprove 'A is B,' you prove 'A is not B.'
EUDEMUS. Well, you tell us that we must become just
by acting justly, and become temperate by acting temperately.
But must not a man already be just and temperate before
he can act justly and temperately? If a man complies with
the laws of grammar and music, I suppose we would call
him a grammarian or musician.
ARISTOTLE. I see your objection. It is not without
plausibility. But this is the way in which I meet it. First,
I deny what you say even in the case of the arts; secondly,
I deny the parallel which you draw between the arts and
virtue. I deny what you say even in the case of the arts,
for it is possible to produce an artistic result (1) by chance,
(2) at the suggestion of another. The first is not a case
which is likely to occur, but still it is theoretically possible,
and so we must take account of it; the second is common
enough. Suppose that Coriscus were to show me a compo-
sition which complied with all the laws of grammar and
rhetoric; should I think that Coriscus was a grammarian
Ix] THE ANALOGY BETWEEN VIRTUE AND ART 77
and rhetorician, if I had the suspicion that he had got
Theophrastus to help him? No, it would only prove that
there was a grammarian and rhetorician somewhere. The
thing would have been done according to reason, but not
necessarily with reason. Now, in order to be rightly called
a grammarian, you must not only do something grammatical,
but do it in the grammarian's way, that is, in accordance
with the knowledge of grammar in yourself. It is not the
case then, even with regard to art, that the mere outward
act is sufficient to constitute a claim to the possession of the
mental quality.
But, further, I deny the parallel that you draw between
art and virtue. It is true that I have often had occasion
myself to call your attention to the close analogy that exists
between art and virtue. And in order to do full justice to
your case, Eudemus, I will now draw out the chief points
in this analogy. Some of them, as I have said, have been
already mentioned, and others we may have occasion to
advert to again.
(1) To begin with, art and virtue resemble each other in
the mode of their acquirement, inasmuch as both result
from practice. Both are habits or states, which are formed
by a repetition of like acts. But art is a habit of pro-
duction, while virtue is a habit of action.
(2) Again, both are habits resulting in effects which are
in accordance with true reason within oneself.
(3) Art also resembles virtue in this, that it is both
produced and destroyed by the same things. In both of
them we are met by the apparent anomaly that the same set
of outward circumstances may produce opposite results.
(4) This, of course, must be the effect of some inner
difference in the agent, some natural bent for art or virtue,
which is present in one, while absent from the other. So
that we may extend the analogy between art and virtue
1
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to the natural capacity that is required for both. This is
a point on which I am never anxious to insist, because our
business is confined to doing our best with the material that
nature has given us; some might be discouraged who
thought that nature had not favoured them. Still truth is
better than edification, and it is no use shutting our eyes
to the fact that there is some natural difference between
man and man. When we say that we are naturally adapted
to receive the virtues and perfected in them by practice, wel
must not be understood to mean that all are naturally
adapted in a like degree. There are some who are really
more fortunate than others, as being born with a greater
capacity for virtue; and the same is true of art.
(5) Yet another point in which the analogy holds good
between art and virtue is that both tend to reproduce the
same sort of acts out of which they were formed.
(6) Further, as Nicomachus reminded us, art and virtue
are both enhanced by the difficulty of their object.
(7) Lastly, art and moral virtue resemble each other in
both aiming at the mean, excess and defect being alike fatal
to each.
There are all these points in the analogy between art and
virtue, and I daresay you yourselves could think of more.
But, while allowing all this, I have still to deny that the
parallel applies in the present case. For, when we come to
examine the products of art and virtue, we find that the
analogy breaks down. For the products of art are viewed
in themselves without any reference to the motive of the
artist. But in judging of a moral act the motive is every-
thing. It is not enough that the external result be of such
and such a kind: there is demanded also a certain dispo-
sition of mind in the agent. There are three conditions
which we may lay down as necessary to an ideally perfect
act of virtue-
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REFUTATION OF AN OBJECTION
(1) Knowledge,
(2) Purpose, by which we mean that the act is done
for its own sake,
(3) A firm and unalterable disposition of mind.
Let us see how indispensable these are to virtue, and
then consider how far, if at all, they are requisite for art.
(1) There can be no virtue in an act which is done by
mistake, even though it should happen to be good in itself.
If you gave a beggar gold, when you thought you were
giving him copper, would you say on discovering your error
-"How generous I am '?
NICOMACHUS. No, I think I should say, 'What a fool
I was !'
ARISTOTLE. Or again, if you felt inclined to admire the
courage of a man whom you saw walking unconcernedly
along some frightful precipice, would not your admiration.
vanish if you found out afterwards that he was blind, and
did not know that he was in danger?
(2) Purpose is evidently necessary for a right act. You
must do the act because it is right: there is no other moral
motive. However well a man may behave, if his conduct
is due to interested motives, we do not call him virtuous,
but prudent or politic, or some other such name.
Some-
(3) Lastly, a very noble act may be done in a fit of
enthusiasm, and may not be one that its author would
perform at any time that the occasion called for it.
times the person himself is surprised to find that he has
done it. This detracts from the virtue of the act, as
showing it not to proceed from a settled state of mind.
Now, if you apply these conditions to art, you will find
that the first only is necessary, and that this is the least
important in the case of virtue. Take knowledge away
indeed and art goes with it, for art, to be art, must be
accompanied by reason. Otherwise it is only chance,
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But the other con-
however much it may look like art.
ditions--I mean purpose and steadfastness of disposition-
are utterly beside the mark in estimating a work of art.
When you see a beautiful statue or picture, you do not
refuse to admire it until you have satisfied yourself that it was
produced from a pure love of art. The motive may have
been to get money, or even to spite a rival artist: but the
work is not therefore the less artistic. Nor again is a given
effect less to be admired, if it have been struck off under
a flash of inspiration, and be such as the artist is unable
afterwards to repeat.
THEOPHRASTUs. I did not like to interrupt you until
you had finished speaking of the three conditions. But
I failed to follow your meaning when you said that know-
ledge was the least important in the case of virtue. It
seems to me that, if you take away knowledge, purpose must
go too, and therefore also steadfastness of disposition.
ARISTOTLE. Undoubtedly you must know what you are
doing, else there can be no virtue in it Knowledge in
that sense is all-important: for an act done in ignorance
has no moral character at all. And you are also right in
thinking that knowledge is implied in the other conditions.
But what I meant, when I spoke, was that morality is not
so much an affair of the intellect as of the emotions and
the will. It is not necessary to understand the why and
the wherefore of a right act. If you know that it is right,
that is enough. The great thing is to do it.
But while knowledge in this sense is of little or no
importance, the other conditions are not of little, but of the
whole importance; and these result, mark you, from the fre-
quent performance of virtuous acts. The purpose and the
settled frame of mind both spring from this source. You
purpose a right act at first because you think it is right,
although you may not like it, but eventually you will
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REFUTATION OF AN OBJECTION
purpose it without thinking when habit has become a second
nature. Still less then in virtue than in art does the mere
outward act guarantee the inward state.
A just or temperate act, externally considered, may be
defined as such an act as the just or temperate man would
do: but, before we can argue from the rightness of the act
to the virtue of the agent, we must know that our three
conditions are complied with.
I think that by this time Eudemus will be ready to agree
with us that you do acquire virtue by performing acts of
virtue. The appearance of paradox that there is about that
proposition vanishes the moment we distinguish between
virtue as a series of outward acts and virtue as an inner
state of the soul. The inner state must be acquired by the
performance of the outward act. There is no other way of
acquiring it. Talking will not do; though many people
seem to imagine that it will. They go to hear lectures on
philosophy, and think that in this way they are becoming
good, whereas without the act there is not even an incipient
tendency to the formation of the state. A patient might as
reasonably expect to get well in body by listening very
attentively to his doctor without carrying out any of his
prescriptions, as these people to become sound in soul by
attending a course of philosophy.
LECTURE X
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, II. 5, 6, §§ 1-14]
THE GENUS AND DIFFERENCE OF VIRTUE
As regards the attempt to define virtue, we may be
considered so far to have been merely reconnoitring the
ground, like a general before he concerts his plan of opera-
tions but it is time now that we should begin formally to
work out our definition by means of genus and difference.
You know that in defining a thing you have to give such an
account of it as will serve to distinguish it from all other
things. This sounds, on first hearing, as if it might prove
an endless task. But there is a short cut to the goal.
Find the things to which the thing required to be defined
is most like, and distinguish it from them: then you will
a fortiori have distinguished it from all other things. To
find the things to which a given thing is most like is the
same as referring it to a class, which we call in Dialectic
giving the genus; and to distinguish one member of a class
from the rest is known as giving the difference. We have
then to ascertain the genus and the difference of virtue.
And first as to the genus.
When we speak of the virtue of man we mean, as has
been said before, the virtue of the soul. Virtue then is
THE GENUS AND DIFFERENCE OF VIRTUE
83
something in the soul. Now there are only three things in
the soul-
(1) Feelings,
(2) capacities,
(3) states.
If I can bring forward arguments to show that virtue is
neither a feeling nor a capacity, it will remain that it is
a state. This is the exhaustive or exclusive method of
argument. I have had occasion to employ it once or twice
before.
By a 'feeling' we mean some movement or change in the
mind, liable to affect its judgement (though that point does
not concern us here), and attended
us here), and attended in however slight
a degree by pleasure or pain. As instances of feelings you
may take appetite, anger, fear, confidence, envy, joy, love,
hate, regret, emulation, pity-in fact, you may run the whole
gamut of consciousness.
By a 'capacity' we mean the power latent within us of
being affected by feelings. Thus man has latent within
him the power of feeling anger, or pity, or pain, which
a statue, though it resembles him externally, has not. The
existence of a capacity can only be detected when it
becomes realised in act. It has no form or colour by
which you can recognise it, and can only be known through
its sphere and function.
By a 'state' I mean also a power of some kind, but one
by which we stand in a good or bad relation to our feelings.
For instance, if we feel anger violently or laxly, when an
occasion arises which calls for the display of that feeling,
we stand in a bad relation to it; but if we feel it
moderately, we stand in a good relation. And so on in
other cases.
Now, let me prove that neither the virtues nor the vices
are feelings.
G 2
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(1) We are not called good or bad on account of our
feelings.
But we are called so on account of our virtues and vices.
.. The virtues are not feelings.
(2) We are not praised or blamed for our feelings.
But we are praised or blamed for our virtues or vices.
.. The virtues are not feelings.
The feelings in themselves are morally indifferent. They
are the raw material both of virtue and of vice. You do
not blame a man for the badness of the material he works
on, if it was provided him from elsewhere, but for the way
he works on it. Or, to take another illustration, you do
not blame a man for the badness of the horse he rides, if
it was furnished him by the state, but only for the way in
which he rides it. In the same way you do not blame
a man simply for having certain desires, but for not
exercising a proper control over them. And the same is
true of praise.
(3) Feelings, like anger and fear, occur in us without our
purposing them.
The virtues are forms of purpose, or, at all events,
impossible apart from purpose.
.. The virtues are not feelings.
(4) We are said to be 'moved' by our feelings.
This term is not used in connexion with virtues and
vices but rather we are said to be of a certain 'dis-
position.'
.. The virtues are not feelings.
In this last argument I appeal to the authority of the
multitude, as I told you I was always ready to do. Com-
mon language recognises a distinction between the virtues
and the feelings.
Much the same arguments may be applied to prove that
the virtues are not mere capacities of feeling.
x] THE GENUS and differenCE OF VIRTUE 85
(1) We are not called good or bad, nor are we praised or
blamed, on account of our capacities, as it is felt that they
are out of our power.
(2) The capacities also, like the feelings, are unattended
with purpose.
(3) Moreover we have capacities by nature, but we do
not become good or bad by nature.
This last point has been amply insisted on before.
Since then the virtues are neither feelings nor capacities,
it remains that they are states.
In this way we determine the genus of virtue.
NICOMACHUS. I quite follow your demonstration, father,
if only I understood why you took for granted at starting.
that there are only three things in the soul. Why should
there be only three things? Why not any number of
things?
ARISTOTLE. Life is short, my son, and one cannot prove
all things at all times. I confess that the initial assumption
was borrowed from the course on Dialectic, in which we
are accustomed to subdivide the category of Quality under
four heads-
(1) States and conditions;
(2) Natural capacities or incapacities;
(3) Sensible qualities and feelings;
(4) Forms and shapes, &c.
Now virtue is a quality or 'suchness'; and it is so
evidently not a sensible quality, such as sweetness or
bitterness, heat or cold, whiteness or blackness, nor yet
a form or shape or anything of that sort, such as straightness
or crookedness, that I omitted these and confined myself to
the things that it was possible for virtue to be.
NICOMACHUS. I am afraid, father, I do not remember
all you told us in that course: it was so dry. Do you
think you could make it plain to us, apart from all
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that, that virtue must be one of the three things you
mentioned?
ARISTOTLE. I think I can. You will agree with me
that virtue is something in the soul-something mental.
Also that anything mental must be either actual or
potential. Now the term 'feeling' covers everything
actually realised in the soul: it applies to any moment of
consciousness whatever. And any potentiality must be
either an unformed possibility prior to the act, which we will
call a 'capacity' or a formed possibility subsequent to it,
which we will call a 'state.' In this way we justify the
assumption that virtue is either a feeling, a capacity, or
a state.
-
actual feeling
Mental thing
potential
subsequent to it = state
prior to act = capacity
Let me illustrate the difference between a capacity and
a state in a way which will bring it home to you.
When you first joined the gymnasium, you were not very
good at athletics, as your ill-health had prevented you from
taking part in the usual exercises of the children. The
first day you were there you saw Coriscus perform what
seemed to you a surprising feat; it was that of turning
a complete circle round the bar. Your ambition was
aroused, and you determined to emulate him. But when
you grasped the bar with your hands, you found that you
lay there like a log, and you wondered how any one could
ever contrive to get his heels above his head. Still you
knew that you had the usual complement of muscles, and
therefore the capacity to do what others did. So you were
not discouraged, but tried and tried again, gaining more.
x] THE GENUS AND DIFFERENCE OF VIRTUE
87
and more control over your limbs by dint of constant
practice. At last, by a supreme effort, you performed the
feat. Then the capacity had developed for the first time
into act. But you were far from being able to count on
yourself yet. Though you succeeded one day, you might
fail the next. At last, however, practice made perfect.
And now you walk about Athens with a formed capacity
for turning a complete circle round the bar, whenever you
please.
NICOMACHUS. Yes, that has certainly brought the matter
home to me, and I begin to understand what you mean by
calling virtue a state, and also why it must be a state.
ARISTOTLE. Then we will go on to determine the
difference of virtue, and see wherein the praiseworthiness
of this mental state consists, and how it leads to the best
course of action with regard to pleasure and pain.
We may lay down, to begin with, that the virtue, or
excellence, of anything has two effects-it makes the thing
itself, of which it is the virtue, to be in a good state, and it
makes it perform its work well. For instance, the work of
the eye is to see, and its virtue is to see well. The eye
which has this virtue is in a good state, even when it is
closed, and it performs its work well when it is open.
Similarly the virtue of a horse makes the horse itself a good
horse when it is locked up in the stable, and also makes it
good at going and bearing its rider and facing the foe.
Applying this to the case of man, we may say that the
virtue of man is a state in consequence of which he becomes
a good man, and in consequence of which also he will perform
his own work well.
This however is still rather general. Indeed, you may
perhaps accuse me of beating about the bush, as this is
now the third tentative definition that I have given you.
So let us come to the heart of the matter. Or rather we
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T
have come to it already, and we need only take up again
what we said before when we laid down as a characteristic
of virtuous acts that they observe a mean between excess
and defect. There are many states in which a man may
be with regard to feelings and actions, and many of them
are far from praiseworthy: that one only deserves to be
praised which exactly attains the mean. This therefore is
the difference of virtue-that it attains the mean.
But here we must guard against misconception. For
there are two kinds of mean-the absolute and the relative
mean. It is necessary to distinguish these, and to say which
it is that virtue aims at.
In everything that is continuous and divisible, one can
take the more, the less, or the equal, and that either with
respect to the thing itself or with respect to us. In either
case what we call the equal is a mean between excess and
defect. By the equal with respect to us, I mean the just
amount. Take for instance this oleander stem. I might
cut off from it more than I left behind, or less than I left
behind, or exactly the same amount. The last would be
the equal with respect to the thing, that is, the objectively
equal or half. But suppose I wanted the wood for a definite
purpose, say to serve as a walking-stick, the exact half
might be too much or too little, and the equal in this case
would be just what was equal to my requirements. This
is the subjectively equal or right amount.
Now you will understand the difference between the
absolute and the relative mean.
The absolute mean is that which is equidistant from
either of the extremes, and is one and the same to all
persons. Thus 6 is an absolute mean between 2 and 10,
for it exceeds and is exceeded by the same amount, namely
4. A series like this,
2, 6, 10, 14, 18, 22, &c.,
x] THE GENUS AND DIFFERENCE OF VIRTUE
89
is what is known to the mathematicians as an 'arithmetical
progression.' Any term in it, except, from the nature of
the case, the first or last, is an absolute mean between the
one that comes before and the one that comes after it.
The absolute mean is the same thing as the objectively
equal. For the difference between 2 and 10 is 8, and 4,
by which 6 exceeds and is exceeded, is the half of this.
The relative mean is that which is neither too much nor
too little for us, and it is not one and the same to all persons.
If ten pounds were too much for some one to eat, and two
too little, it does not follow that the trainer would order him
six: for that might still be too much or too little for his
requirements. It would be too little for a Milo and too
much for a beginner. The same holds true with regard to
exercise in the way of running and wrestling.
THEOPHRASTUS. I notice that you began by speaking
only of continuous quantity, whereas the last instance you
have chosen is derived rather from discrete quantity.
I suppose the doctrine of the mean may be illustrated
indifferently from either kind.
NICOMACHUS. Before you answer Theophrastus, father,
would you mind explaining the meaning of the terms that
you and he are using? As I said before, I do not quite
remember the course on Dialectic: I suppose I did not
properly grasp it at the time. But I do not wish now to
miss following anything.
ARISTOTLE. One of our subdivisions under the category
of Quantity is into continuous and discrete. In continuous
quantity the parts are all in connexion with one another;
in discrete quantity they are separate. You cannot find
any two parts in continuous quantity, no matter how near
to one another, between which there does not lie some
quantity of the same kind, so that continuous quantity is
always infinitely divisible, at least in theory. This is not
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the case with discrete quantity, for division stops when you
reach the units of which it is composed.
EUDEMUS. Can you not go on into fractions?
ARISTOTLE. If you do, you have ceased to divide discrete
quantity, for the parts of a unit are not discrete.
NICOMACHUS. Will you give us some instances, father?
It will make things clearer.
ARISTOTLE. Well, roughly speaking, this marble pillar
will give you a notion of continuous quantity, and this
handful of sand a notion of discrete quantity. You see
the parts of it are each of them separate from the other.
Or again, the physical body with its limbs is an instance.
of continuous quantity, the body politic with its members
an instance of discrete. The parts of the latter are indi-
vidual citizens, who are so many separate units. If matter
really consisted of distinct atoms, as Leucippus said, then
it would be as discrete as the handful of sand which I picked
up just now. Again, a line, a surface, a body, space itself,
and also time are all continuous. On the other hand,
number and speech are discrete. Speech consists of so
many separate syllables, which are either long or short.
THEOPHRASTUs. Nicomachus must be quite satisfied by
this time, so I should like to know whether you had any
special reason for laying stress on continuous quantity when
you began to explain to us the difference between the
absolute and the relative mean.
ARISTOTLE. I was only giving an illustration, and either
kind of quantity would have served for this, so that I might
just as well have said 'quantity' merely. There were how-
ever some reasons which made continuous quantity commend
itself to me more at the moment when I spoke. One was
that I was seeking to illustrate the mean attained by virtue.
This is a mean with regard to feelings and actions. Now
both feelings and actions come under the general head of
x] THE GENUS AND DIFFERENCE OF VIRTUE 91
movement, and movement, while it lasts, is always con-
tinuous. Again I said, if you remember, 'continuous and
divisible.' Now continuous quantity, being infinitely divisible,
must always furnish a mean between excess and defect,
whereas discrete quantity does not always. However, we
have rather strayed from the point. Let us come back to
virtue.
It is of course the relative, not the absolute mean that
virtue aims at. The mean we are speaking of is not a stated
amount of feeling and action, the same for all persons, as
though virtue were a question of arithmetic. It is the mean
relative to us that virtue seeks and chooses, that is to say,
the exact amount of feeling and action that is proper to us
on a given occasion, when all our circumstances are duly
taken into account. The extreme variability of this mean
is one of the causes which render our science as indefinite
as it is. What is proper for the master may not be proper
for the slave, and what is right and becoming in the woman
may be unseemly in the man.
It is a mean of the same kind that art aims at. We have
seen so already in the case of the trainer, and you may see
it also in the case of the fine arts. What is the highest
encomium that you can pronounce upon a work of art, say,
for instance, a perfectly modelled statue? Is it not that
it is impossible to take from it or add to it without spoiling
the effect? If the sculptor had only been aiming at the
absolute mean, he might simply have cut his block of
marble in two. But his problem was how to leave so
much here and take away so much there, as exactly to
produce the desired effect, namely, an imitation of the ideal
perfection of the human figure.
Now, if art aims at the mean, how much more will virtue
aim at it, seeing that, like nature, it is more exact and better
than any art?
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EUDEMUS. I can feel the truth of what you say about
nature and virtue being more exact than art, but I should
be glad to have the point made a little clearer.
ARISTOTLE. Well, take any work of nature—this fly, for
instance. Every part of it is perfect within and without,
even to the minutest portion that can scarcely be detected
by the eye.
It is not so in art. Art is but the shadow of
nature, and every art is limited by the material in which it
works. The painter gives you only a coloured surface;
the sculptor can give you body, but he carves only the out-
side and leaves the inside still in the rough. Now virtue,
like nature, is more minute, exact, and exacting than art.
It requires perfection within and without. It is not con-
tent, as we have seen, that the external act should be right,
but requires that the internal disposition should be right
too. It is enough for the statue to be fair without, but
the virtuous man must be fair also within.
In all that I am saying about virtue aiming at the mean,
of course you will understand that I am referring only to
moral virtue. It is this which has to do with feelings and
actions, with which intellectual virtue has no concern.
Now the mean, of which we are speaking, is a right amount
of feeling and of the action to which it leads. Feeling is
a thing of which you can have too much,—or it may be too
little--and so it requires to be regulated by reason. But
reason is not a thing of which you can have too much: you
want, if possible, to be perfectly rational. To apply the
doctrine of the mean to intellectual virtue would be to
attempt to regulate the regulator: but if we once began
that process, there is nothing to prevent its going on for
Reason is infallible, if you can only get at it. The
difficulty is for its light to pierce through the clouds of
passion. But of feeling, as I said, you may have too much
or too little. Fear, confidence, desire, anger, pity, pleasure,
ever.
x] THE GENUS AND DIFFERENCE OF VIRTUE 93
and pain generally-they may all be felt in excess or defect,
and in neither case is perfection attained: but to feel them
at the right time and on the right occasions and towards
the right persons and from the right motive and in the right
way, this is the perfect mean, which is the mark of virtue.
What we have said of feeling applies also to action, since
every action is prompted by a feeling of some sort. Feeling
naturally tends to express itself in act, and does, except in
so far as it is restrained by other feelings. This restraint of
feeling by feeling is attained by reason giving the preference
to one over the other. If we could always let our feelings
embody themselves in act in exact proportion to their
reasonableness-never too much and never too little-that
would be the perfection of conduct. But what would that
be but the mean in action? Virtue therefore
Virtue therefore is a mean of
a certain kind, inasmuch at least as it aims at the mean.
Again, look at the matter in this way. There are any
number of ways of going wrong, but only one way of going
right: for evil belongs to the infinite-to use the figurative
language of the Pythagoreans-whereas good belongs to
the finite. This is what makes the one so easy and the
other so hard. It is easy enough to miss the mark, but it
is hard to hit it. For this reason then also we may say that
excess and defect belong to vice, but the mean to virtue.
For
Virtue is one, but vice is manifold.'
NICOMACHUS. My head always begins to swim, father,
when I hear of the Pythagoreans: they were so very
abstruse.
ARISTOTLE. There is nothing to be alarmed at this time,
my son. If you will glance at their parallel series which
I drew out for you, you will see that the one which ends in
the good begins in the finite, and that the one which ends
in evil, begins in the infinite. Nor is this arrangement
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without a certain appropriateness. The mind shrinks back
from the vague and formless, from the limitless, the in-
definite, the infinite. All our ideas of perfection are
connected with form, and form is, and must be, finite.
The whole progress of the world is a gradual victory of
form over matter -a passage from chaos to cosmos.
But to come back to what I was saying. Virtue is
a mean in whatever way you look at it. If you choose to
represent the matter to yourself under the form of a line,
then there is a certain length of action, and of course of
feeling too, which is precisely right for you in a given case,
having due regard to all the circumstances: anything that
falls short of this or goes beyond this becomes vice in the
way either of excess or defect. Or, if you prefer to think of
it under the figure of a circle, then virtue is the state which
exactly attains the mean point or centre, while there are
innumerable other states which lead you above or below,
around and about, too much to the right or too much to
the left. I alter the metaphor on purpose in order that
you may not press it, and may remember that it is
a metaphor.
LECTURE XI
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, II. §§ 15-20]
THE FULL DEFINITION OF VIRTUE: SOME
CRITICISMS ANSWERED
IN the last lecture we saw that virtue was a mean with
regard to feelings and actions. But, you will ask me, How
is this mean to be attained? There are no unvarying rules
to be laid down. I will commit myself to nothing more
precise than this, that it must be determined in a given case
by the light of reason. Reason is the carpenter that cuts
the required length and the archer that hits the mark. If
the length is not rightly cut, or the mark is missed, that is
not the fault of reason, but of the something else that
interferes with reason.
Here however a difficulty arises. For, supposing your
reason differs from mine on the subject of what is right,
what are we to do then?
EUDEMUS. I thought you said that reason was infallible.
ARISTOTLE. I did say that reason is infallible: but
I did not say that what we call 'your reason' or 'my reason'
is infallible. By those terms we mean the extent to which
either of us is enlightened by reason. Now in the sphere
of morals it is unfortunately true that the intellect sees what
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the will allows it to. We must therefore appeal from the
judgement of the ordinary man to that of the ideally wise
man, in whom the light of reason is unclouded by passion.
To say then that the mean is determined by reason is the
same thing as to say that it is determined by the wise man.
So that, putting together all that we have been saying, we
arrive at the following definition of virtue-
Virtue is a state of purpose, lying in the mean which is
relative to us, which mean is determined by reason, that is to
say, by the reason of the wise man.
This is now the second great step towards the attainment
of our end. The first was made when we defined happiness.
That we found to involve a reference to virtue, so that it
became necessary to define virtue. Virtue, as you see,
involves purpose.
So that there is a third step before us,
which is to define purpose.
EUDEMUS. I can account for every other word in the
definition. But I don't remember your anywhere proving
that virtue was a state of purpose.' You proved only that
it was a state.
Aristotle. No, I have not proved it—there are some
things too obvious to require proof. But I have all along
taken it for granted. I did so first when I made purpose
one of the three conditions of an act which would entitle
the doer of it to be called virtuous; and I did so again in
proving that the virtues are not feelings, when I declared
that the virtues are forms of purpose or impossible apart
from it. Of course virtue is connected with purpose. For
purpose is the only thing in the world that is essentially
right or wrong. There is no physical act, which may not
under certain circumstances conceivably be right. All
depends upon the purpose with which it is done. It did
not occur to me therefore to prove this point. Still, if you
want a formal proof, I will try to give you one.
There
XI]
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THE FULL DEFINITION OF VIRTUE
We have shown already that virtue is a habit or state of
mind. Now a state has no meaning except in reference to
activities; it is only realisable in and through them. But
activity must assume one of three forms, production, action
or speculation, that is, if you employ your mental faculties
at all, it must be in making, doing or thinking. Any state
therefore must lead to one of these three, and may be said
to be a habit either of making, doing or thinking, or, if you
like, a state conducive to production, action or speculation.
Now, if moral virtue were a habit of making, it would be
the same as art, which we know that it is not; and if it
were merely a habit of thinking, it would be indistinguish-
able from intellectual virtue. It remains, therefore, that
virtue is a habit of doing, or a state conducive to action.
But to say this is the same thing as to say that it is a state
of purpose, for action, in the proper sense of the term, is
impossible apart from purpose. We have proved, therefore,
that virtue is a state of purpose. This is its proximate
genus, whereas 'state' is its genus merely. In giving
a definition, it saves trouble to begin with the proximate
genus, that is, with the smallest class to which a thing can
conveniently be referred. Thus, in defining a square, it is
better to begin by saying that it is a four-sided figure,'
than to say merely that it is 'a figure.'
THEOPHRASTUs. I have heard some of the Megarians
attack your doctrine of the mean. They represented you
as saying that a little more or a little less of a virtue made
a vice; and maintained that therefore you made virtue and
vice to differ in degree only, not in kind, in fact that you
established a merely quantitative, and not a qualitative
difference between virtue and vice.
ARISTOTLE. If that is what they say of me, I think they
scarcely deserve the reputation for dialectic that they have
achieved. For the true dialectician should be as careful of
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1
his premisses as of the inferences he draws from them, and
above all things should be anxious never to misrepresent an
opponent. If I did say that a little more or a little less of
a virtue made a vice, their conclusion would be rightly
drawn. But I do not say so. What I do say is that a little
more or a little less of the same matter or stuff out of which
virtue is made, namely, feelings and actions, will make
a vice--and that is a very different matter. This still leaves
a difference in kind between virtue and vice. Is there no
difference in kind between the coat that fits you and the
coat that is too large or too small for you? Reason is the
tailor that exactly adjusts the cloth to your requirements, so
that you feel comfortable yourself, and present an appear-
ance of grace to your fellows. Or, to go back to our
former illustration. Is there no difference in kind between
the block of marble in the rough and the statue which is
hidden in it, and which only the sculptor knows how to
find? And yet it might be argued similarly that the
difference between them is only one of quantity.
THEOPHRASTUS. In the case of the statue I can see that
the difference is one of form.
ARISTOTLE. And can you not see the same in the case
of virtue? The relative mean is the perfect adaptation of
conduct to surroundings, so as to do the thing that is right.
for you under the circumstances. This is effected by reason
imposing form upon the brute matter of feeling. I do not
know how to express this better than by the metaphor of
the mean, which does not originate with me, but is as old
as Theognis, if not older.
THEOPHRASTUs. I remember that in the course on
Dialectic you told us that a definition ought not to be
metaphorical, and you objected on that ground to Plato's
definition of temperance as a harmony.
ARISTOTLE. You have a very good memory, Theophrastus:
XI
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SOME CRITICISMS ANSWERED
indeed it is almost inconveniently good. But I wish you
would exert it in remembering the caution I have repeatedly
given you about not expecting greater precision than the
subject-matter admits of. The perfect definition would not
be metaphorical, but we must be content sometimes with
imperfect ones. Virtue is not a thing that you can measure
with rule or compass. It is something to throw out a
metaphor at it that will stick. If a metaphor is grounded.
on a real analogy, it may prove a truth for all time.
But to come back to the Megarians. Their charge
against me of saying that a little more virtue would make
a vice is absurd on the face of it. You cannot have too much
virtue. Take, for instance, the virtue of courage. A man
cannot be too courageous. He may be too confident-
that is quite a different matter. But courage is the due
regulation of confidence and its contrary affection, fear, by
the reason; and of this it is impossible to have too much.
So that while I define virtue as essentially a mean, you
must remember that, from a moral point of view, it is an
extreme, utterly removed from and opposed to vice. To
lodge an arrow in the bull's-eye of a target may be said to
be hitting the mean, but it is at the same time an extremely
good shot. Or, to vary the metaphor, we may say that the
vertex of an isosceles triangle is a mean between the two
angles at the base, inasmuch as it is equidistant from them,
but at the same time it is above them both.
NICOMACHUS. Now it is my turn, father. I want to know
something about the wise man. To me indeed it will
always be enough to consult you upon any point of conduct,
or, for that matter, of speculation either. But, supposing
we had two wise men, both of them recognised authorities.
on questions of morality, and that they differed in opinion-
what then?
ARISTOTLE. It is plain that they could not both be right,
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though they might both be wrong. The doctrine of the
wise man, I admit, cannot be applied in practice, except
approximately. There is no wise man to whom we can
appeal; he is ideal and inaccessible, and does not help us
in our doubts and difficulties. Still the doctrine embodies
a truth for all that. You may regard the wise man as
a type of the advancing instincts of mankind. In pro-
portion as we become pure and good, in such proportion
do our judgements tend to coincide with the very truth of
things.
Now that I have answered your questions more or less
successfully, I want myself to guard against one chance of
misconception. We have said that virtue is a mean with
regard to feelings and actions. You will not think of
converting this proposition and saying that every mean
with regard to feelings and actions is a virtue. Sometimes
it is not moderation but total abstinence that is required.
There are certain feelings and certain actions which do not,
morally speaking, admit of a mean, for the very good reason
that they are themselves extremes. For instance, in the case
of feelings, delight in evil, shamelessness, envy; in the case
of actions adultery, theft, murder. We do not ask a man to
be moderate in murder or to adapt his adulteries to his
social surroundings: rather we request him to abstain from
adultery and murder altogether. It is not the excess or
defect that is blamed in these cases, but the feeling or act
itself. There is no right or wrong as regards the proper
person, time, or manner of adultery, murder and so on,
but simply to do any of these acts is to do wrong.
EUDEMUS. How does this suit with what you said just
now about there being no act which might not conceivably
be right?
ARISTOTLE. If you remember, I used the expression no
'physical act.' But the names of these acts imply an
XI]
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SOME CRITICISMS ANSWERED
intention as well. It may be right and proper under
certain circumstances to take human life, but it is never
right to commit murder. To expect a mean with regard to
these things is to apply the doctrine of the mean over
again to the extremes. It is asking that there should be
a mean, excess and defect of injustice, cowardice, and in-
temperance, which are themselves either excesses or defects.
And so we should have a mean of excess and defect, and
an excess of an excess, and a defect of a defect. If this
process once begins, there is no point at which it is bound
to stop. We might refine for ever as to shades of iniquity;
but they would be all base and blameable. Virtue then is
always virtue and vice is always vice. It is not a question
of degrees at all. For virtue itself, as I have told you,
in a sense an extreme. It is impossible to have too
much temperance or courage; and also-though this is
a hard saying-it is impossible to have too little. For
either your impulses are regulated by reason, in which case
you are virtuous, or they are not. You may fall short of
virtue by more or less, but you cannot have too much or
too little virtue. Remember the metaphor of hitting the
mark. On the whole, then, you must observe that the
doctrine of the mean applies once for all, and cannot be
applied over again either to the mean itself or to the
extremes.
LECTURE XII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, II. 7]
APPLICATION OF THE DOCTRINE OF THE MEAN TO
THE VIRTUES IN DETAIL AND TO TWO QUASI-
VIRTUES RELATION OF THE TEN VIRTUES TO
THE FOUR CARDINAL VIRTUES: CLASSIFICATION
OF THE VIRTUES ACCORDING TO SPHERE
We have said that virtue is a mean. But it is not enough
to make a general statement like this, without verifying it by
applying it in detail. In this way the truth of the theory will
be brought home to us. In questions of practice general
statements may be of wider application, but particular ones
have more reality about them. So let us run through the
moral virtues, with a view to seeing that, as a matter of
fact, every one of them is a mean between vices in excess
and defect. We will only briefly enumerate these virtues
now with the particular object that I have just mentioned :
but afterwards we will dwell upon them separately, in order
to give fullness to our conception of virtue. To-day's lecture
therefore will supply a sort of table of contents for many
lectures that will follow later.
Since moral virtue in general is the control of the feelings
and actions by reason, it follows that any particular moral
APPLICATION OF THE DOCTRINE OF MEAN 103
virtue will be the control of some special class of feelings
and actions. This special class of feelings and actions
constitutes what we will call the 'sphere' of the virtue.
Since every act is prompted by feeling, it is indifferent
whether we express the sphere in terms of feeling or in
terms of action.
The sphere of the virtue of courage is the feelings of
fear and confidence. Courage is a mean state with respect
to these. You may have a man who is too ready to expose
himself to danger. Such a man is in excess, and therefore
not in a virtuous but in a vicious state. And here we may
distinguish. His over-readiness to face danger may be due
to two causes, to callousness to fear or to excess of confidence.
Externally the two characters will closely resemble each
other, but internally they will differ. They may act in the
same way, but the act will not be prompted by the same
feeling in both cases. We have no name for the former
character, but the latter we call 'rash.' The man who is
in defect as regards exposing himself to danger we call
a 'coward.' He unites in himself the attributes that are
contrary to those of both the characters that are in excess.
He has too much fear and too little confidence.
THEOPHRASTUS. I suppose you might distinguish between
two kinds of coward, one who errs from excess of fear and
another who errs from defect of confidence.
ARISTOTLE. I was about to do so, when it struck me
that it would be an idle subtlety. Indeed I am inclined
to regret having distinguished as I did between two
characters in excess. The attempt to carry out a similar
distinction in the case of the other virtues might prove em-
barrassing. At all events, it would be more a matter for
display of ingenuity than for sober accordance with fact,
which is what we are in search of. So let us, if you please,
consider what I said to be unsaid; and let us say simply
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
that the character in excess has too little fear and too
much confidence. Courage then is a mean between rashness
and cowardice. The sphere of temperance is pleasures and
pains, though it is not concerned with all of them, and
with the pains in a less degree, and not in the same way
as with the pleasures. The excess we will call, for want
of a better name, 'intemperance.' It must be understood
that the term is used in somewhat of a technical sense.
Persons who are deficient in the enjoyment of pleasure
hardly ever occur, so that common language has not
bestowed a name on them. But let us call them 'stolid.'
Temperance then is a mean between intemperance and
stolidity.
The sphere of liberality is the giving and receiving of
property. The excess and defect are prodigality and illibe-
rality. But they are in excess and defect in an opposite
way to one another. For the prodigal is in the excess
in parting with his property, and in the defect in receiv-
ing, whereas the illiberal man is in the excess in receiving
or taking, but in the defect in parting with property.
For the present this much will suffice to say about them,
as we are only speaking summarily and in outline. We
will go into detail later on. Liberality then is a mean
between prodigality and illiberality.
There are other states of mind which have, roughly
speaking, the same sphere as liberality and its contrary
vices, that is, they deal, like them, with property. 'Mag-
nificence' we regard as a virtue. The excess might be
called '
extravagance,' only that would hardly serve to
distinguish it from prodigality: we had better call it by
some such name as bad taste, vulgarity or ostentation. The
defect we will call 'shabbiness.' These states differ from
the former set in having to do with property on a larger
scale. There are also other points of difference, which we
XII] APPLICATION OF THE DOCTRINE OF MEAN 105
will examine later.
Magnificence then is a mean between
vulgar profusion and shabbiness.
The sphere of greatness of soul is honour and dishonour.
The excess we may call vanity and the defect littleness of
mind. Greatness of soul then is a mean between vanity
and littleness of soul.
There is another virtue which has the same sphere as
greatness of soul, but differs from it in having to do with
honour on a smaller scale. It therefore bears the same
relation to greatness of soul as liberality does to magnifi-
cence. We may express the analogy thus—
As liberality : magnificence :: a certain virtue : greatness
of soul.
In small things as in great one may covet honour in the
right way or be too eager for it or not eager enough. He
who is excessive in his craving for it is called ambitious,
he who is defective is called unambitious, while he who hits
the happy mean is without a name. The several disposi-
tions of these characters are also nameless, except that the
state of mind of the ambitious man is called ambition.
Hence we find the characters who are in either extreme
putting in counter claims for the virtuous state, which lies
as a sort of no man's land between them. Nor has common
language quite made up its mind as to the rightful owner-
ship. We sometimes call the person in the mean ambitious,
and sometimes we call him unambitious; sometimes we use
the term 'ambitious' in a good sense, and sometimes we
use 'unambitious.' The reason of this shall be, stated in
the sequel, but now we must continue our list of the virtues,
as we have seen that a proper ambition is a mean between
ambition and a disregard for honour.
The control of the temper is the sphere of a virtue and
vices which have no very well-defined names. We will call
the person who is in the mean 'gentle' and his state of
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[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
mind 'gentleness.' Of the two characters who are in the
extreme let him who is in the excess be called 'passionate,'
and the vice passionateness' or 'ill-temper.' The person
who is in the defect may be called 'passionless' or 'in-
sensible,' and the defect itself a want of passion' or
'insensibility.' Gentleness then is a mean between passion-
ateness and insensibility to anger.
Social intercourse in word and deed is the common
sphere of three praiseworthy mental states: but each has
its particular sphere within this common one. One of
these states is concerned with the true and the other two
with the agreeable. Of the latter one has to do with the
agreeable in amusement, the other with the agreeable in
life generally. It will be as well to speak of these also,
that so we may the better convince ourselves that it is the
mean in all things that is praiseworthy, while the extremes
are neither right nor praiseworthy but blameable. The
same want of names from which we have suffered before
will again embarrass us here. However we must meet the
difficulty by boldly inventing names ourselves, that my
meaning may be clear, and that you may be able to
follow it.
<
With regard then to the true in a particular sense, let the
man who attains the just mean be called 'truthful,' and
the mean state 'truthfulness.' Untruthfulness, if it take
the form of exaggerating one's own merits, is called
boastfulness,' and the man who is in that state of mind
is known as a 'boaster'; if, on the other hand, it take the
form of detracting from one's own merits, we may as well
call it 'self-depreciation,' and the man who possesses the
quality a 'self-depreciator.' Truthfulness, then, as a social
virtue, is a mean between boastfulness and self-depreciation.
With regard to the agreeable in amusement, the man who
is in the mean may be called 'witty,' and his disposition
XII]
107
THE TWO QUASI-VIRTUES
wit'; the excess may be called 'buffoonery,' and the man
who is in that state a 'buffoon'; for the man who is in
defect we can find no better name than a 'boor,' while his
state may be called 'boorishness.' Wit then is a mean
between buffoonery and boorishness.
With regard to the agreeable in life generally, the man
who makes himself pleasant in the way he ought to may be
called 'friendly,' and his state of mind 'friendliness.' As
for the man who overdoes friendliness, we may distinguish
between two cases. If he has no interested motive, he is
simply obsequious, but if he has such a motive, he is a
flatterer. The man who is in the defect and makes him-
self disagreeable on all occasions may be set down as
quarrelsome and cantankerous.
These are all the moral virtues that I can think of, and
every one of them, you see, is a mean between a vice in
excess and a vice in defect.
THEOPHRASTUS. No one can deny that you have verified
your theory. Indeed, in spite of your warning us that the
expression is only metaphorical, I begin now to wonder
how one could ever express the essence of virtue as any-
thing but a mean.
ARISTOTLE. The theory may be extended beyond the
virtues properly so called. You will find that there are
means with respect to the feelings which do not amount
to virtues, because they are not states of mind, but which,
like virtues, are praiseworthy. So that though virtue is
always a praiseworthy mean, it does not follow that every
praiseworthy mean is a virtue. Thus, take the feeling of
shame. Shame is certainly not a virtue still you praise
the person who has a proper susceptibility to shame, and
call him 'modest.' On the other hand you blame the man
who is too liable to shame, and call him 'bashful,' while
you condemn as 'shameless' the man who is defective in
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[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
a sense of shame or unsusceptible of that feeling at all.
Thus we may say that modesty is a mean between bashful-
ness and shamelessness. Then, again, there is the range
of feeling which is aroused by the prosperity or adversity
of one's neighbours. The man who is capable of indigna-
tion feels pain at seeing a base man or a villain prosper;
the envious man is pained at prosperity, quite independently
of the question of desert, and this is evidently having too
much of a good thing; on the other hand, the man who
delights in evil is so far in the defect of being pained as
even to feel pleasure at the prosperity of the wicked. Thus
we may say that indignation is a mean between envy and
delight in evil.
THEOPHRASTUs. I am afraid my memory is going to
prove inconvenient again. But did you not say in the
course on Rhetoric that 'the same man who envies also
delights in evil,' on the ground that, if a man is pained to
see prosperity, he must be pleased at its being destroyed?
ARISTOTLE. I did. But words should be our servants
and not our masters. The quality of which I was speaking
then was delight in the evil that happens to others, which
we may call 'spitefulness.' Now I am speaking of delight
in evil for its own sake, a disinterested but devilish feeling,
which makes a man prefer to see a scoundrel succeed.
You have only to look at life to see that there is such
a thing as this sympathy with evil.
EUDEMUS. You said 'so far in the defect of being
pained as even to feel pleasure.' I suppose the defect
pure and simple would be the state of mind of the man
who is perfectly indifferent as to whether prosperity is
deserved or not. Such a man might be supposed to
welcome it wherever he found it, just as the glutton is
ready to gorge himself on anything.
ARISTOTLE. That is quite true, and a very acute remark.
XII]
109
THE FOUR CARDINAL VIRTUES
But we will have an opportunity of discussing these
questions later.
NICOMACHUS. You gave us ten moral virtues, father-
I counted them as you went along-and two quasi-virtues,
and yet you never said a word about justice !
ARISTOTLE. On the contrary, I have said a great deal
about it, since in one sense it is not a virtue distinct from
the rest, but the exercise of virtue generally towards your
fellow-man. In another sense it is a virtue with a sphere
of its own. However, I am reserving the whole subject for
separate treatment after we have reviewed the other moral
virtues in detail, and before we go on to speak of the
intellectual virtues.
EUDEMUS. It would greatly interest me to know how
you would reconcile your list of virtues with the four
cardinal virtues of wisdom, courage, temperance and
justice, which people seem to have been content with
hitherto. Or perhaps I ought rather to ask you whether
you would reconcile it?
ARISTOTLE. Wisdom I am holding in reserve, because
it is an intellectual virtue. But it lies at the base of all
moral virtue, which is impossible without it. Courage and
temperance figure conspicuously in our list; and as to
justice, I have just explained my view of that in reply
to Nicomachus. So you see that we recognise all the four
cardinal virtues.
EUDEMUS. Yes, but our list contains a great many
more good qualities, and it is that which troubles me.
ARISTOTLE. It is not my business to defend the fourfold
division. But, if one were challenged to make the tenfold
list of moral virtues tally with it, I suppose one might say
that the remaining good qualities are made up by different
blends of the four cardinal virtues applied to the control
of particular feelings and lines of conduct. Wisdom, as
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
I have said, is inseparable from them all so we need
not mention it in every case. You can see that there
is an element of courage in liberality, as there is certainly
an element of cowardice in its contrary. The element
of courage is still more conspicuous in greatness of soul,
but that quality implies the presence of all the virtues,
as we shall see when we come to treat of it. Gentleness
would go down under the head of temperance used in
a large sense, so as to include the control of the temper
as well as of the appetite. The social virtue of truthfulness
is manifestly a form of wisdom not unmixed with temper-
ance, and containing also an element of justice and, in
a sense, of courage. As for the quasi-virtues, modesty
evidently leads to temperance, whence some have attempted
to define temperance under that head, while indignation
is a constituent of justice, especially of that form of it to
which we shall give the name of 'distributive justice.'
There now-Eudemus! I did not like to put you off
without an answer, as your question was a reasonable one.
But you have led me into a procedure which is the reverse
of that which I would naturally have chosen. My constant
aim is to lead you to give definiteness to your thoughts
by fixing them upon the well-marked features of things,
instead of catching at resemblances, which impart an air
of generality at the cost of vagueness.
THEOPHRASTUs. Did you follow any definite order in
giving us the list of moral virtues? Or did you simply
mention them as they occurred to you?
ARISTOTLE. I have hatched many chickens before now,
but I never had such a pecking brood as you. No one
ever asked me that question before. I seem to feel vaguely
that there is a sort of natural fitness in the order in which
the moral virtues are wont to present themselves to my
mind. It is possible that we might find some principle
XII]
III
CLASSIFICATION OF THE VIRTUES
But you must
First of all,
underlying it, if we were to search for it.
allow me time before I answer your question.
let us divide them into groups, in order to facilitate your
remembrance of them, though you indeed, Theophrastus,
seem to stand in little need of aids to memory. It will be
useful however to do so, as perhaps then the principle will
become apparent both to you and to myself.
We began
with the two cardinal virtues of courage and temperance.
These seem to have a natural affinity for one another, as
they are both perfections of the animal nature of man.
Let us class them together under the title of the Physical
Virtues. Next, we have a pair of virtues which deal with
property. We will call them the Economic Virtues. This
pair is followed by another pair, which have to do
with the esteem of one's fellow-citizens, which is known
as honour. They may therefore fitly be called the Civic
Virtues. Gentleness we will let stand by itself under the
title of the Control of the Temper. Our list closes with
a set of three virtues, which deal more especially with the
conduct of social intercourse, so that we may call them
pre-eminently the Social Virtues.
Let me draw out a scheme which will present this dis-
position of the virtues to the eye. It consists, as you will
see, of five compartments.
Courage
The Physical Virtues.
Temperance
Liberality
Magnificence
The Economic Virtues.
Greatness of Soul
Moral virtue
The Civic Virtues.
Love of Honour
Gentleness The Control of the Temper.
Truthfulness
Wit
The Social Virtues.
Friendliness
LECTURE XIII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, II. 7-9]
ORDER OF THE VIRTUES: THE RELATION OF THE
EXTREMES TO EACH OTHER AND TO THE MEANS:
PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR ATTAINING THE
MEAN
Now, Theophrastus, I think I am more ready than I was
at the last lecture to satisfy your craving for a rational
order in the list of the virtues. But first it will be necessary
to premise some points, that we may the better understand
each other.
Reason is the guiding and controlling, but not the motive
power in man. It is a thinking faculty: but if man is to
act, he must be impelled thereto by something other than
reason. This something else we call feeling or passion.
I should like to give the name 'craving' to this reaching
out of the soul after a good of some kind: but that would
sound strange to your ears. The word 'impulse' will do,
if you are careful to think of the impulse as coming from
within, not from without. The object of desire draws, it
does not push you. It is thus that God attracts into his
own likeness: but that is a subject too deep for our present
purpose. Now impulse may be divided into two kinds, the
irrational and the rational. The rational kind we will call
'wish.' The irrational may be broadly summed up under
the two heads of 'appetite' and 'passion.' This last term
is unfortunately ambiguous. We have used it already as
ORDER OF THE VIRTUES
113
equivalent to feeling in general. But we are now using
it to signify the source of love and hate. Anger comes
under it, but that is too narrow a term: perhaps 'spirit'
would do better. I know we shall have a difficulty with
it whatever word we use, so think rather of the definition
than of the name. It is, as I have said, the source both of
love and of hate. When I say it is the source of love I am
not referring to the sexual instinct. That is a form of
appetite, like hunger and thirst. But it differs from them
in this. Hunger and thirst are implanted in us by nature
for the preservation of the individual, this other form of
appetite is implanted in us for the preservation of the race.
Man might neglect his own body, if it were not for the
pleasures of eating and drinking and the pains of hunger
and thirst; he might also neglect to replenish the race, if
he were not tempted thereto by the pleasures of love.
Nature has her own ends which she leads us to pursue,
while we fancy that we are pursuing ours. Appetite has
always pleasure, or immediate gratification, for its object,
whereas the object of wish is what is good for one in the
long run, or at least what one imagines to be so. Appetite
will prompt you to partake of dainty dishes; the wish
to get well may suggest your taking physic. Wish is thus
a more far-seeing principle than appetite or anger, both
of which rush blindly to their own gratification.
at the scheme I am drawing for you—
Look
Irrational
Impulse
RationalWish
Appetite
Spirit
and conceive of man henceforth as a puppet worked by
three strings. You pull the string of appetite, and you see
I
114
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
him rushing to gratify his carnal desires; you pull another
string, and you see him soothed by affection or blinded by
rage; yet another string, and he proceeds calmly to compass
what he conceives to be his highest good.
It is time now to return to the virtues.
If you should ever be called upon, Theophrastus, to give
a reason for the way in which the moral virtues are arranged
in our list, you may say that in their arrangement there
may be traced-
(1) a progress from below upwards;
(2) a progress from within outwards.
We will first look at the progress from below upwards.
In beginning with the physical virtues we are beginning
at the base of the scale, since man's animal nature underlies
his moral and intellectual. Courage and temperance deal
with the two irrational impulses, which we have called spirit
and appetite. If your appetites are perfectly in accordance
with reason, you possess the virtue of temperance; if your
spirit allies itself with reason in facing danger, you possess
the virtue of courage. Some semblance of these virtues
may be possessed by the brutes, some of whom we regard
as courageous and temperate, others as cowardly and
gluttonous. We say also that a horse is a spirited animal
and that a deer lacks spirit.
Again these two virtues deal with the love of pleasure
and the fear of pain, the two feelings which lie at the root
of all sentient existence. Courage teaches us to endure
pain, which we naturally shun, and temperance backs up
the lesson by teaching us to abstain from pleasure, which
we naturally seek. In this way this pair of virtues may be
seen to be complementary to one another.
Now what do the next two virtues deal with? They
deal with property. The impulse to accumulate property,
that is, to lay by against a rainy day, has nothing in common
XIII]
115
ORDER OF THE VIRTUES
with spirit, still less with appetite, which would prompt one
to gobble up everything at once. Therefore it comes from
the rational desire for good, which we have denominated
wish.' Here then we have entered upon a higher plane.
The lower animals do not possess property, or, if they do,
it is in a very rudimentary way.
Man indeed may be
defined as an acquisitive animal, or an animal that gets
property.
Honour,
The next pair of virtues deals with honour.
like property, is an external good, since it does not depend
upon one's own will, but it is a good of a finer nature than
the other. Here then we enter again upon a higher plane
than before.
Then comes the virtue
allowed to stand by itself.
not an external good, like property and honour, but an
internal good. It is a greater victory to master oneself, as
I endeavoured to persuade one pupil who shall be nameless,
than to conquer the whole world, and a greater good than
to receive honour from all men. Here therefore we are
again upon a higher plane than before.
of gentleness, which we have
The control of the temper is
And notice further that this virtue stands in a very signi-
ficant position, at the threshold of the social virtues. No
man is fitted to move among his fellows with grace and
dignity, unless he has his temper well under control.
The three virtues which remain put the final polish upon
a man in his dealings with others. Truthfulness is the social
excellence of not offending those with whom you converse
by an exaggerated statement of your own merits or on the
other hand by a mock humility. Wit and friendliness
impart grace and sweetness to hours of relaxation and to
all the relations of life.
So much then for the progress from below upwards.
Now let us turn to the progress from within outwards.
I 2
116
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
The physical virtues, though, like all moral virtue, they
have their social aspect, are at the same time pre-eminently
individual and self-regarding, as being essential to life.
They are virtues which might be practised by Philoctetes
during his sojourn on his lonely island. But how could
Philoctetes be liberal or magnificent to himself? These
virtues at once imply relations to others. Neoptolemus
must visit him, to whom he may offer a share of his scanty
victuals, before he can be liberal. Still more essentially
social are the virtues which have to do with the esteem of
one's fellows. For while a man may be liberal to one,
he desires honour from all. The social bearings of the
remaining virtues have already been touched upon, and it
is unnecessary to repeat what has been said before. In
this way then we trace a progress from within outwards.
as well as a progress from below upwards.
THEOPHRASTUs. I had rather take my stand upon the
progress from below upwards, as there each step seems
more definitely marked. But I am afraid I might be met
with this difficulty. Somebody might say to me, 'Do you
really think, Theophrastus, that the control of the temper
is so much higher a virtue than temperance, or the control
of the appetite, that you set it in the fourth place above it?
I imagined you were of opinion that "it is harder to contend
against pleasure than against anger," and this would seem
to show that temperance is a higher virtue than gentleness.'
I don't know what I should be able to say to such a person,
for I certainly assented to Nicomachus when he laid down
the principle that difficulty enhances virtue, especially as
that principle was guarded by you.
ARISTOTLE. I think you will be quite able to hold your
own in argument, Theophrastus, and I shall leave you to
settle matters with the antagonist yourself. I did my best
to oblige you by reading some order into the list of virtues.
XIII] INTERRELATION OF MEAN AND EXTREMES 117
But, after all, the arrangement of the virtues is not a matter
of any vital importance. Every one is free to arrange them
as he pleases.
NICOMACHUS. I suspect, father, you were looking at the
virtues more from the point of view of the state when
you arranged them as you did. The physical virtues are
essential to the bare existence of the state, the economic
virtues to the comfort of the state, the civic virtues to the
cohesion of the state, and the rest to the moral welfare
and beauty of the state.
ARISTOTLE. Perhaps I was, my son. At all events we
may retain the order as being at least as convenient as
any other. So let me now draw you out a full scheme
of the virtues and vices. It will come in useful presently,
when we dwell upon the virtues in detail. (See table, p. 118.)
There are a few more words to be said before we quit
the doctrine of the mean.
Since virtue lies in a mean between two extremes, it
may be considered to be opposed to both of them, and
they in their turn may be regarded as opposed both to one
another and to the mean. Just as the equal is greater as
compared with the less, and less as compared with the
greater, so the mean states are in excess as compared with
the defects, and in defect as compared with the excesses,
both in feelings and in actions. Thus the brave man is
less ready to face danger than the rash, but more ready
to face it than the coward, and similarly the temperate
man is less ready to enjoy pleasure than the intemperate,
but more ready to do so than the stolid, and again the
liberal man is less ready to give and spend than the
prodigal, but more ready to do so than the illiberal. And
therefore we often find the man who hits the happy mean
abused by both the extreme characters, who thrust him
off on one another, so that you will hear the coward call
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[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
THE TEN MORAL VIRTUES.
Defect.
Cowardice
Mean.
Courage
Stolidity
Illiberality
Shabbiness
Littleness of soul
Want of ambition
Want of passion
Self-depreciation
Boorishness
Quarrelsomeness
Temperance
Liberality
Magnificence
Greatness of soul
Proper ambition
Gentleness
Truthfulness
Excess.
Rashness
Intemperance
Prodigality
Vulgar profusion
Vanity
Ambition
Passionateness
Fear and confidence
Pleasure and pain
Property
Honour and dishonour
Sphere.
Anger
Boastfulness
The true
Wit
Buffoonery
In amusement
Friendliness
Obsequiousness
The agreeable
ог
Flattery
In life gener-
ally
THE TWO QUASI-VIRTUES.
Shamelessness
Modesty
Bashfulness
Delight in evil
Indignation
Envy
Shame
The fortunes of others
Intercourse in
word and act
XIII] INTERRELATION OF MEAN AND EXTREMES 119
the brave man rash, and the rash man call him a coward,
and so on in other cases. But this abuse from both sides
is the highest form of compliment. Now while there is this
opposition between all the states, which of them ought
we to consider to be the contraries of one another? By
'contraries' are meant those things which are most remote
from one another under the same head. Thus black and
white are considered contraries, because they are furthest
removed from one another under the one head of colour.
This way of speaking is a metaphor from space. In space
'up' and 'down' are contraries, and they are in a literal
sense the furthest removed from one another. The earth,
as you know, occupies the centre of space. Now the centre
is the point most remote from the circumference. The
earth is down, the extremities of space are up. Motion
towards the earth we call 'downward,' and motion towards
the extremities 'upward.' But to come back. Are we to
consider that the mean is contrary to both the extremes, or
rather that the extremes are contrary to one another?
It would seem that though virtue is contrary to vice as
a whole, yet that a given vice may be more opposed to
another than it is to its opposite virtue, just as in the circle
or sphere, though the centre is furthest removed from the
circumference as a whole, yet, if you take any given point
on the circumference, you can find another which is twice
as far from it as the centre is. Hence, when we want to
express the extremity of opposition, we talk of 'wide as
the poles apart.' Again, the angles at the base of an obtuse-
angled isosceles triangle are more remote from one another
than either of them is from the vertical angle, which may
be regarded as a mean between them. On this way of
looking at the matter we ought to say that, in the case
of moral states, it is the vices in excess and defect that
are, strictly speaking, contrary to one another.
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
This conclusion is strengthened by the fact that there
is sometimes a likeness between one of the extremes and
the mean, whereas the extremes are utterly unlike one
another. Thus rashness has a sort of natural resemblance
to courage and prodigality to liberality.
And this leads me on to remark that, while both extremes
are opposed to the mean, one of them is sometimes more
opposed to it than the other. Sometimes this is the case
with the defect and sometimes with the excess. Thus
cowardice, which is the defect, is more opposed to courage.
than rashness, which is the excess; while, on the other
hand, intemperance, which is the excess, is more opposed
to temperance than is the defect, which we have named
stolidity.
If we inquire why this is so, we shall find that it arises
from two causes, one of them rooted in the nature of the
thing itself, the other in our nature.
(1) Sometimes one of the extremes is nearer to and
more like the mean than the other. Thus rashness and
prodigality have a kind of affinity to courage and liberality,
whereas their contraries, cowardice and illiberality, are alien
to it altogether. You might make a rationally brave or
liberal man out of the rash or prodigal much more easily
than you could out of the coward, the niggard, or the thief.
Hence we naturally regard cowardice and illiberality as
more opposed, or more nearly contrary, to courage and
liberality than rashness and prodigality are.
(2) Again the extreme, to which we have a greater
natural tendency, is, for us, more opposed to the mean
than its contrary is. For instance, we are all of us rather
too much addicted to pleasure, and are more prone to
intemperance than to sobriety, and therefore a fortiori
more so than to stolidity or insensibility to pleasure.
Hence, for all practical purposes, intemperance may be
XIII] INTERRELATION OF MEAN AND EXTREMES 121
Fear
regarded as more opposed to the mean than its rarely-
occurring contrary.
NICOMACHUS. Does it not sound a little paradoxical,
father, first to say that virtue is a mean, and then to say
that one of the extremes is nearer to it than the other?
ARISTOTLE. I grant that it sounds so, my son. It is
the inevitable penalty of using a metaphor that it is liable
to be pressed against you. There would be a contradiction
in reality, and not merely in appearance, if we had ever
said that virtue is a quantitative mean. To say that would
amount to saying that any given virtue must be equidistant
from the two vices which proceed from the excess and
defect of the same feeling that the virtue in question keeps
in due control. But this we have been always careful not
to say. On the contrary we have insisted on the relativity
of the mean, that it is the amount which is right for us.
There is no necessity for this to be exactly intermediate
between the maximum and the minimum. Courage is no
halfway house between a fatuous confidence and a craven
fear. It is the due admixture of fear and confidence which
is proper for a being like man. Now fear is only in place
on rare occasions, whereas the good man should be
habitually confident. Hence the mean for us will contain
a great deal more of confidence than of fear. We may
figure this to our minds under the image of a line thus :
Confidence
Courage
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Or, that you may not attach any importance to the
image, except in so far as it serves to illustrate, let us
liken courage to a generous draught duly attempered to
the taste of man, instead of consisting in equal measures
of the wine of confidence and the water of fear.
EUDEMUS. You gave it as your decision that the ex-
tremes were to be considered the direct contraries of one
another, rather than that the mean was the contrary of both.
But is it not the case that the mean is incompatible with
either of the extremes, whereas the extremes are com-
patible with one another? May not the same man
combine in himself opposite vices, and so be wrongly
irregular? For I suppose we may say that virtue is rightly
irregular, the extremes being in a certain sense contained
in the mean, just as a harmony may be made up of
discords.
ARISTOTLE. Your language, I think, is more ingenious
than exact.
But let that pass. I will deal rather with the
point you have raised, which is certainly an interesting one.
It is the case that extremes meet. The blusterer may be
a coward at heart, the man who is prodigal of his own
property may be covetous of another's, and extreme sim-
plicity may have a touch of swagger. But though extremes
meet, they meet in the concrete and not in the abstract.
Rashness as a quality has no resemblance to cowardice,
readiness to give must always be distinct from proneness to
take, and though ostentation may assume the garb of
simplicity, yet ostentation is not simplicity nor simplicity
ostentation. I do not think therefore that there is anything
in what you say to make me retract my judgement that the
extremes are contrary to one another rather than the mean
to the extremes, that is, that they are wider apart from one
another than the mean is from either of them. It is true
that both of them are vices, whereas the mean is a
XIII]
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PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS
virtue, but vice being infinite, you cannot argue that two
things are near, because they are both contained in that
class.
We have now shown that moral virtue is a mean, and
what sort of mean it is, and that it is a mean between two
vices, one in excess and the other in defect, and further
it has become apparent in what sense it is a mean, namely, in
that it hits off the mean both in feelings and in actions.
If the metaphor had no other merit, it would at all events
serve to show how hard it is to be good. Consider how
difficult it would be for any one to hit upon the exact centre
of a circle, if he did not possess the requisite mathematical
knowledge! It was not without reason that Pittacus said
'It is hard to be good.' Any one can lay his finger on some
point in the circle, but to find the centre-there is the
problem! In the same way any one can feel anger and give
or spend money: but the right person and the right amount,
and the right time and the right motive and the right
manner to satisfy all these conditions is far from being
in the power of any one. And so, when they are satisfied,
our praise is unstinted, so rare and beautiful is such moral
excellence.
Now let me conclude by giving you some practical hints,
which may aid you in endeavouring yourselves to attain the
mean.
(1) First of all, avoid that extreme which is in its own
nature more opposed to the mean. Choose Scylla rather
than Charybdis, which will wreck you altogether, following
the advice of Calypso-
'Steer wide thy bark of all this seething surf.'
NICOMACHUS. Wasn't it Circe who said that, father?
ARISTOTLE. I believe it was, my son, now you mention
it. You are fresher from your Homer than I am.
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THEOPHRASTUs. I think you will find that it was neither
Circe nor Calypso, but Ulysses who said these words to his
pilot. He was repeating what Circe had said to him in
a slightly different form.
ARISTOTLE. Thank you.
It is well to be accurate,
though the point does not affect the illustration. Of the
two extremes one may be worse and more erroneous than
the other. And, when this is the case, if you cannot hit the
mean exactly, it is well to take the lesser evil, as your
'second sailing.'
NICOMACHUS. I have often heard that phrase, father:
but I can't say I ever rightly understood it.
ARISTOTLE. Well, what pleases the mariner best is
to be scudding along in the Aegean before a favouring
breeze. But, if the wind drops, and a dead calm comes
on, what must he do then? Why, put out his oars
and row.
(2) But to come to my second point. Avoid that
extreme to which you personally are more inclined; and
even go for a time into the opposite extreme. Men are not
all of the same disposition by nature: some are more prone
to err in one direction and some in another. We must
keep a sharp look-out on our besetting sins, and determine
to avoid them at all hazards. We can recognise what they
are by the pain or pleasure attendant upon particular acts.
And, having found what our personal proclivity is, we must
give ourselves a good tug in the opposite direction. Haply
in this way we may eventually come into the mean, just
as a warped piece of wood may be set straight by being
given a bend in the opposite direction. Thus, if you find in
yourself an inclination to niggardliness, launch out for a
time into a course of extravagance; if, on the other hand,
your weakness lies in the way of prodigality, a dose of
meanness may be good for you.
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PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS
(3) My third hint to you is this. Above all things
beware of being misled by pleasure. Pleasure is the most
dangerous, because the most insidious, foe to virtue: she
bribes our verdict. We must treat her then as the elders
would fain have treated Helen. You remember how Priam
and the other old men were sitting on the tower at the
Scaean gates, when Helen came before them in all her
beauty. They admitted that she was a miracle of loveliness,
and said it was no marvel that men should fight and die
for her but all the same they thought that she had better
go away in the ships, and not stay as a bane to themselves
and to their children. That is how we should treat Pleasure
-acknowledge her beauty and send her away. It is not
necessary to be rude to her or denounce her as a strumpet:
but, when Virtue bids, we must renounce her.
Such, my son, and you, Theophrastus and Eudemus,
is the advice I have to give you with regard to the attain-
ment of the mean. I know that it is easier to give advice
than to follow it. For advice is general, but the application
of it is a question of particulars. How hard for instance to
know exactly how and with whom, and on what sort of
occasions, and for what length of time, the feeling of anger
is right and justifiable! Even in the case of others we
cannot quite make up our minds. How much less therefore
in our own! Sometimes we praise those who are really in
the defect in this regard, and call them 'gentle'; sometimes
we erroneously give the name of 'manly' to persons who
would more correctly be described as harsh-tempered.
When the divergence from the mean is slight in either
direction, it fails to attract our notice: it is only when
it becomes glaring that we condemn it. Nor is it possible
to lay down in so many words what amount of anger is
right and proper or where error begins: a man must use
his own common-sense to decide for himself on a given
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occasion. All casuistical argument is cut short by the
simple fact that the question is one of feeling. This much
however is clear that in all cases it is the mean state that is
praiseworthy, though it may be our duty to swerve aside
sometimes towards the excess and sometimes towards the
defect, in order that we may the more easily attain to the
perfection of the mean.
LECTURE XIV
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 1, §§ 1-12]
VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY ACTS: INVOLUN-
TARY ACTS DUE TO COMPULSION OR IGNOR-
ANCE DEFINITION OF A COMPULSORY ACT
Now we are ready to enter upon the third great step
towards the prosecution of our design. We defined happi-
ness-that was the first step. Happiness we found to
consist mainly in virtue. So we defined virtue—that was
the second step. Virtue depends mainly upon intention or
purpose. So we must define purpose-that will be the third
step. The attempt to take it may lead us into deeper
waters than we have yet had to ford, and we must beware of
being swept away by the current. But if I am careful not
to get out of my own depth, perhaps I may succeed in
enabling you also to keep your heads clear and above
water. So far as is possible, I will let you understand the
reasons for each step: but, if my method should not be on
all points clear to you, you must put faith in my guidance,
until you are able to look back for yourselves upon the
completed journey.
Well, our object is to define purpose. Purpose is an
inner principle, and inner principles are hard to get at. So
we will let purpose itself alone for the present, and look
rather at its outward and visible result. This is better
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(
known to us. By the outward and visible result of pur-
pose' I mean what is commonly called an act done on
purpose. Let us endeavour to define this.
An act done on purpose is a species of voluntary act. It
will be well therefore first to define what we mean by
a voluntary act. If we have a clear conception of the
genus, it will help us to determine the species.
Apart from its subservience to our immediate design, the
examination of the subject of voluntary agency will fit in
admirably with the general aim of these lectures, both from
the narrower point of view of ethics, or the science of con-
duct, and from the wider point of view of statecraft, or the
science of happiness, of which, as I have explained to you,
the former is a branch. For look at the matter in this way.
Virtue is concerned with feelings and actions, and virtue
we have declared to be a praiseworthy state. Now praise
and blame are attached only to such actions as are consi-
dered voluntary; in other words, it is only such actions
that have a moral character at all. It is therefore plainly
necessary for the moralist to distinguish between the volun-
tary and the involuntary.
Again, from the practical point of view of the statesman,
whose object is to make men good, it is highly useful to
have a clear view of the distinction, with a view to the
proper assignment of rewards and punishments. From
time immemorial lawgivers have dealt a different measure of
justice to offences, according as they considered them
voluntary or involuntary. We may even go beyond the
written law, and say that this is part of the unwritten law of
nature and of the custom of mankind. Has a man com-
mitted an offence voluntarily? There is anger and punish-
ment in store for him.
mitted it involuntarily?
pity.
Can it be shown that he has com-
There is pardon and sometimes
XIV] VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY ACTS 129
We want then to define a voluntary act. But perhaps we
had better begin by looking at involuntary acts.
If we
know what they are, we shall arrive at the voluntary by way
of contrast with them.
There are two cases in which an act is universally recog-
nised as being involuntary; the first is, if it be done under
compulsion, the second, if it be due to ignorance. This
is a division, of course, that I am giving you now, and
not a definition. A definition must be general, and not
disjunctive.
Involuntary act
Due to ignorance
Done under compulsion
We will examine first the kind of acts that are recognised
as involuntary on the ground that they are done under
compulsion.
You may take this as a definition of a compulsory act.
A compulsory act is one of which the efficient cause is external,
being such that the agent, or rather the patient, contributes
nothing thereto. I said advisedly 'the agent, or rather the
patient.' For the so-called 'acts,' which are done under com-
pulsion are not really done at all but suffered. The efficient
cause in such acts lies outside of the apparent agent, who is
played upon like a puppet. If you are carried off by main
force by the enemy, you are not accused of deserting the
army; and, if you are blown over a precipice by a high
wind, no jury will bring in a verdict of felo de se. An
act to be my act must come from my will, and physical
force cannot affect the will. Wild elephants cannot make
a baby will to move its little finger. Man has an impreg-
nable citadel in his own will, wherein he is safe from all the
assaults of violence.
Now, turning for a moment to the other kind of acts
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which are considered involuntary, I mean those which are
done in ignorance of their real nature, it is easy to see that
in such cases the act itself is voluntary enough, for you can
only be said to do as much as you intended to do. Hence,
on a strict view of the case, there are no such things as
involuntary acts: all acts whatever are voluntary. 'Involun-
tary act' is in fact a contradiction in terms.
NICOMACHUS. But surely, father, if a tyrant had you in
his power, and threatened to put you to death, unless I did
some wrong or disgraceful act, you wouldn't say that such
an act on my part was voluntary! Or again, when
Aristippus, being afraid of pirates, threw his bag of gold
overboard, you wouldn't say that he did that voluntarily!
I
ARISTOTLE. You need not be so impetuous, my son.
was coming to your difficulty. In the strict sense of the
terms, as I was saying, there is no such thing as an involun-
tary act. But, in view of the practical importance of the
distinction drawn between voluntary and involuntary acts,
we must not be sticklers for mere logic. Undoubtedly
a person may be driven from a variety of motives to do acts
which run counter to his natural inclination, and there is
a temptation to call such acts involuntary.' I would
prefer myself to call them 'mixed acts.'
Mixed acts are such as proceed not from physical, but
from moral compulsion. Moral compulsion, unlike physical,
has power to act on the will. So that in the case of these
acts the agent does contribute something: for he contributes
the consent of his own will. And this makes the efficient
cause internal, so that such acts fail altogether to satisfy our
definition of the compulsory. I have called them mixed
acts as though they were partly voluntary and partly involun-
tary-involuntary as being acts such as no one under
ordinary circumstances would do, but voluntary as proceed-
ing from the will of the agent under pressure of circum-
XIV] VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY ACTS 131
stances.
But if you look closely into these acts, you will
find that they are really voluntary. Let me give you two
reasons for thinking so.
(1) They are choiceworthy at the time when they are
done.
(2) There is no physical compulsion about them.
Aristippus preferred that his bag of gold should go over-
board than that he should be murdered for the sake of it.
And again he walked up to it of his own accord and with
his own hands pitched it over the gunwale. So that, after
all, I do say that he did that act voluntarily. I say also that
it was a very right and proper thing for him to do, and
there would be no meaning in my saying that, if the act
were involuntary. It is only in the abstract that mixed acts
are involuntary. But as acts do not take place in the
abstract, it is what they are in the concrete that counts.
The essential voluntariness of mixed acts is proved further
by what I have already hinted at, namely, the fact that they
are praised or blamed. From this point of view-I mean
from a moral point of view-we may roughly divide mixed
acts into four classes-
(1) Those which deserve praise,
(2) Those which deserve blame,
(3) Those which admit of excuse,
(4) Those which admit of no excuse.
The fourth class really comes under the second.
Still we
will let it remain as a receptacle for acts of the worst
character.
Penelope has won everlasting renown by an act which in
itself was of dubious merit-I mean her deception of the
suitors but we consider her to have been justified by her
motive, which was fidelity to her absent lord. Deception,
however, under ordinary circumstances is simply the mark
of a base mind. Again, when Agamemnon sacrificed his
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daughter, we may excuse him for the act on the ground
that it was represented to him as being for the good of
Greece. But the same cannot be said of Orestes' murder
of his mother. Indeed it may be questioned whether any
excuse could ever be pleaded for matricide. As for the
motives which are said to have compelled' Alcmaeon in
Euripides into the crime, they are simply ridiculous.
There are some acts which one should rather die than do,
and die too, if need be, under the most horrible tortures.
'
But of two evils it is often difficult to decide which to
choose, and still more difficult to abide by one's decisions.
Especially is this the case when the choice is between
a physical and a moral evil; and hence praise and blame.
are thrown into the scale, in order to help men to a right
decision. But there are cases which prove too much for
poor human nature even with these aids. In such cases we
may say with truth that a man was morally compelled into
such and such an act; and apart from questions of right
and wrong, we may say the same when the motives to an
act are such as no one would be likely to resist. Thus you
are morally compelled to leave a friend's table, if you hear
that your house is on fire.
It is plain now from what we have been saying that
mixed acts are not compulsory in the sense in which we
have defined that term. Abstractedly indeed and in them-
selves they may be said to be involuntary, but at the given
time and as an alternative to other things they come from
the choice and will of the individual. They are therefore
really voluntary, for acts take place under particular circum-
stances, and these are voluntary.
THEOPHRASTUs. I do not know what you mean by saying
that the circumstances are voluntary.
ARISTOTLE. Nor do I. It was a slip of the tongue.
I meant that they are such as to render the act voluntary.
XIV] VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY ACTS 133
NICOMACHUS. Could you give us some rules, father,
about mixed acts, in the same way as you did about the
attainment of the mean?
ARISTOTLE. I would not attempt such a task, my son.
Remember what I was saying to you at the close of my
last lecture. Taking place, as they must, under particular
circumstances, and circumstances being infinitely various,
no two cases of mixed acts are ever precisely alike.
THEOPHRASTUS. I have heard some people maintain that
the pleasant and the right may be regarded as causes external
to ourselves, which constrain the will, and hence that acts
which spring from them are compulsory. I do not suppose
you would accept this view, but I would like to hear exactly
how you would deal with it.
ARISTOTLE. Let me hear rather how you would deal with
it, Theophrastus.
THEOPHRASTUs. I will do my best, but you have taken
me rather by surprise. Well, I think I would say something
like this-
(1) To begin with, your argument proves too much. For,
if we grant your contention, all acts whatever will be com-
pulsory. For the love of pleasure and the love of right are
the motives of all our acts.
(2) In the next place, acts which are done under com-
pulsion and against the grain are attended with pain, whereas
acts done because they are pleasant or right are attended
with pleasure. Therefore it is absurd to ascribe the cause
to external things, instead of to yourself for being so easily
caught by such things, and to claim the credit of your right
acts for yourself, while you lay the blame of the wrong ones
upon pleasure.
ARISTOTLE. You are going rather too fast there. For
the theory that you undertook to disprove was that both
right and wrong actions were due to causes external to
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ourselves. Consistently with this theory right actions
would be ascribed to the pure charms of virtue as wrong
ones to the more meretricious allurements of pleasure. In
neither case would the cause lie with ourselves.
THEOPHRASTUs. Yes, but I am sure the man whom
I heard supporting the theory meant it only as an excuse
for bad actions. He said something about a man being
forced to make love to his neighbour's wife.
ARISTOTLE. His motive is his own concern: your business
is with what he says. Depend upon it, edification is not
worth seeking at the cost of misrepresentation.
THEOPHRASTUs. I will remember what you say.
NICOMACHUS. Father, you allowed me to say that there
were three motives of choice the right, the useful and the
pleasant; and now you seem to approve of Theophrastus
when he says that there are only two-the right and the
pleasant.
ARISTOTLE. Well, my son, he has gone a little deeper
than you.
If a thing is useful, I suppose it must be useful
for something. And what can that something be but the
right or pleasant?
NICOMACHUS. But after all, father, were we right either
of us? For, supposing I get into a rage and do or say
something that I am sorry for a few minutes afterwards,
I can hardly be said to have acted for the sake of pleasure,
still less for the sake of right.
EUDEMUS. I don't know why Nicomachus should abandon
his own position in this way, unless for the fun of attacking
Theophrastus. For I suppose it might fairly be maintained
that acts due to anger are done for the sake of pleasure.
Anger, I have heard you say, is a form of pain and its
gratification is attended with pleasure.
ARISTOTLE. In a certain large sense Theophrastus may be
considered right in his division of motives, if by pleasure
XIV] VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY ACTS
135
be meant the gratification of any momentary impulse, so as
to include the acts to which we are prompted by anger, and
even those into which we are driven by fear. Fear aims at
avoiding pain, and this may be brought under the head of
pursuing pleasure. The term 'pleasure' in this sense will
cover every motive other than the abstract preference for
right. So that when Theophrastus refers acts to the two
heads of pleasure and right, he is only saying this-that
when we do anything, we do it either because it is right or
from some other motive: which is undeniable. Still I think
it was a true instinct, and not mere combativeness, that led
Nicomachus to alter his position. There is certainly an
awkwardness in extending the term 'pleasure' to the grati-
fication of spirit or anger, when we are accustomed to confine
it to the gratification of appetite. We ought really to have
some other word to express the object at which passion, as
distinguished from appetite, aims, instead of confusing the
objects of the two principles under the one misleading term
'pleasure.'
NICOMACHUS. I was thinking of the three things of which
you told us, father, when you were explaining the order of
the moral virtues-appetite, spirit or passion, and wish.
Those are really the springs or motives of all our actions—
are they not?
ARISTOTLE. You may call them 'springs,' but not ‘motives,'
my son. If I used the latter term, I was not speaking with
the exactness that I could have desired. But I think I was
careful always to call them 'impulses.' Wish is an impulse
which has good for its object, appetite is an impulse which
has mere pleasure for its object, and passion is an impulse
which has for its object what I can only call its own grati-
fication. Now Theophrastus was quite right in talking of
the objects of these impulses as the 'motives' of action
rather than the impulses themselves.
themselves. And your own
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language also was quite correct, when you spoke of there.
being three motives that lead to choice-the right, the useful,
and the pleasant. You felt a little aggrieved when Theo-
phrastus expunged one of these motives, as not being
ultimate. But we might go further and say, as we so often
do, that there is only one motive for choice, namely, the
good. We should not however have improved upon Theo-
phrastus' statement by so doing. For the good may present
itself either under the form of the pleasant or of the right.
These two may coincide, but they are never identical.
NICOMACHUS. Then may wish aim at the pleasant as well
as at the right ?
ARISTOTLE. It may aim at the useful, or at the right, or
at the pleasant when known to coincide with the right or,
at all events, not to run counter to it. Different types of
character will result from the predominance of these
different ends, but they will all be animated by the rational
desire for good.
NICOMACHUS. But I thought we were to drop out the
useful, father?
ARISTOTLE. Theoretically yes, practically no. For though
the useful can only mean what conduces to pleasure or right,
people have a way of erecting the means into an end, and
pursuing it for its own sake.
EUDEMUS. When you say that the good may present
itself either under the form of the pleasant or of the right,
do you mean to put these two motives on a level?
ARISTOTLE. In the case of the perfect man there would
be no discrepancy between them. He might safely follow
either, as either would lead him to the best course of action.
But then we are none of us perfect, having all of us drunk
more or less deeply of that draught of error, of which Cebes
tells. For us, therefore, pleasure cannot be the guide of life.
The things that are pleasant to us are not the things that
XIV] VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY ACTS 137
are naturally pleasant. By 'nature,' of course, you will
understand me to mean the perfection of being, not the first
rude state. Now as pleasure supervenes upon an act when
it has become habitual, the pleasures of virtue are not felt
until virtue has become a formed state. It follows therefore
that if a man were to set out with the intention of following
pleasure, he would remain always wallowing on the lower
levels, instead of rising to the higher. There is, and must
be, an element of self-sacrifice about virtue-the sacrifice
of the lower to the higher nature—if at least you call this
self-sacrifice, and not rather self-realisation. It depends
upon what you call yourself. I should say that, if you are
going to distinguish between one part and another, you had
better give the name of 'self' to the highest and most god-
like thing in you, so that self-realisation would be what
Plato called philosophy, 'a growing into the likeness of
God.' But we have wandered rather far from the point.
I am not sorry, however, for having had this discussion as
to the motives of action, as it will prepare you for many
things that will come later. For its introduction we have
to thank Theophrastus, who has been rather silent of late.
THEOPHRASTUs. I may have been silent, but I assure
you I have not been inattentive.
ARISTOTLE. Let us come back to the point from which
we digressed. I wish to reiterate, before we part, the
definition which we arrived at of a compulsory act. A com-
pulsory act is one of which the efficient cause is outside of us,
and to which the person compelled contributes nothing.
This definition excludes acts due to the pleasant and the
right from being regarded as compulsory. For the pleasant.
and the right are not causes outside of us; or, if any one
likes to think they are, still it cannot be said in these cases
that the person compelled contributes nothing, since he
contributes the consent of his will.
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EUDEMUS. But if, as Theophrastus said, the pleasant and
the right are the sole motives for action, then it follows that
all our acts, of whatever kind, are voluntary.
A
ARISTOTLE. I do not shrink from that conclusion.
compulsory act, as I explained at the outset, is not really
done but suffered.
In the next lecture we will examine the other kind of
so-called involuntary act, namely, that which is due to
ignorance.
LECTURE XV
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 1, §§ 13-27]
ACTS DUE TO IGNORANCE: THE VOLUNTARY ACT
DEFINED: DIFFICULTIES CONNECTED WITH THE
DEFINITION
PEOPLE are accustomed to talk of 'voluntary' and ‘in-
voluntary' acts, as though that were an exhaustive division.
But in reality we can no more divide acts into voluntary
and involuntary than we can divide colours into white and
black. The only right division is into voluntary and non-
voluntary, that is, we can say without fear of contradiction
that an act is either voluntary or not. We cannot assert in
the same way that it is either voluntary or involuntary. To
say that would be to lay down that it must either go with
the will or against it. But what if the will has never been
consulted at all? This is the case with all acts done in
ignorance of their true nature. All such acts then have to
be set down under the head of non-voluntary. But if, when
the true nature of the act becomes known, it is found to
be not merely without, but against the will of the agent,
we may, out of compliment as it were, call such an act
involuntary, as we see that it would have run counter to the
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agent's will, had the agent's will been consulted. We may
judge of this by observing whether the act is followed by
pain and regret or not. When Oedipus, under great
provocation, killed an old man in a country-lane, he did
not know that that old man was his father. He knew that
he was guilty of homicide, but he never dreamt of parricide,
and so we call the act, meaning the guilt of the act, non-
voluntary. Again, when Oedipus accepted the hand of the
widowed queen, that was forced upon him by a grateful
people, he did not know that that widowed queen was
his mother. The incest and the parricide were alike
non-voluntary, and the tragic grief of Oedipus, when the
terrible truth dawned upon him, justifies us in pronouncing.
them to have been both alike involuntary. But suppose
that a son has killed his father unwittingly, and though he
would never have done it, had he known, is still not sorry
to find it done, what are we to say of his act then? He
half makes it his own by dwelling upon it with satisfaction,
but still we cannot call it voluntary, since we began by
saying that he would not have done it, had he known; still
less can we call it involuntary, since he is not sorry for it:
we will therefore let it remain under the general head of the
non-voluntary. Under this head falls the involuntary as
a species; and this in its turn, as we saw in the last lecture,
embraces two kinds-the compulsory act and the act due
to ignorance, to the latter of which we now add the further
qualification and regretted.' We saw too in the last lecture
that what we called 'mixed acts' are really voluntary but
as there is an important practical difference between what
a man does under pressure of circumstances and what he
would do normally-all the difference, for instance, that
there is between a cannibal and a Greek-we may mark this
difference by distinguishing between the purely voluntary act
and the mixed act, which is due to moral compulsion. It
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will tend to make matters clearer if we schematize these
various divisions.
Pure
Voluntary
Mixed
Act
1
Non-voluntary
Involuntary
Done in ignorance
and not regretted
Compulsory
Due to ignorance
and regretted.
The next point that we have to examine is when an act
may justly be said to be due to ignorance, and on that
ground involuntary.
It is plain that ignorance cannot be considered the cause
of an act, if a man be himself the cause of his ignorance.
Now a man may be himself the cause of his ignorance in
a variety of ways. He may be so through drunkenness,
anger, carelessness or vice; and in the last case his vice
may take the form of the total depravity of the intemperate
or incorrigible man, whose reason is perverted, or the partial
depravity of the man who lacks self-control, whose reason is
right, but whose will does not respond to it. The former
state of mind we will call ignorance of the universal. It is
the state of mind of the man who thinks that wrong is right
for him, or, at all events, choiceworthy, if it tends to gratify
his passions. The latter we will call ignorance in the
purpose. It is the moral oblivion which seizes the man who
sins against light. There is no ignorance of the universal
here, but knowing full well that a thing is wrong, the man.
who lacks self-control goes and does it all the same. The
former character may be said to be ignorant of the major
premiss of the moral syllogism-'An act of such and such a
kind is wrong'; the latter is ignorant of the minor premiss.
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- "This is an act of such and such a kind.' Blinded for the
moment by his passions he thinks only of 'This is pleasant.'
And then, when he has had the pleasure, he repents. But
the repentance is no proof that the act was involuntary.
The act came from his will, only his will was weak.
In view of what has been said we must distinguish
broadly between an act done in ignorance and an act due
to ignorance. In the former case we ought perhaps not to
talk of an act at all, since 'action,' strictly speaking, is always
rational. Now a thing done in ignorance is either not in
accordance with reason or is in accordance with a perverted
reason: but an act due to ignorance may be a perfectly
right and reasonable act under an hypothesis, which unfor-
tunately happens to be false.
In the case of an act done in ignorance, ignorance is an
accompanying circumstance, but the act is due to some
other cause, such as those that we have enumerated. To
make an act due to ignorance, ignorance must be the sole
cause of it. And to make ignorance the sole cause of an
act, the ignorance must be unavoidable, that is, it must be
in no way due to the agent himself. Instead of allowing
drunken ignorance to be pleaded in excuse for a wrong act,
Pittacus, who is reckoned among the Seven Sages, instituted
double penalties for offences committed when a man was
drunk. He felt that ignorance of that sort was due to the
agent himself. On the same principle men are punished for
ignorance of obvious points of law, with which it is their
duty to be acquainted: because such ignorance is traceable
to their own carelessness. But, if special instances of care-
lessness do not render an act involuntary, neither do habits
of carelessness as a whole, for a man contributes to their
formation by his acts. When Cephalus shot into the thicket
in the wilderness, he could not reasonably be expected to
know that the thing which was stirring therein was a human
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being, much less that it was his beloved Procris: and so we
pardon and pity him. But if Cephalus had been in the
habit of shooting on the high roads, he would have deserved
to be lynched for his disregard of life. Neither can acts due
to anger be termed involuntary, since they emanate direct
from the spirit of the agent, and he contributes to them his
own passionate impulse. Least of all can acts due to vice
be termed involuntary. All vicious acts indeed may in
a certain sense be ascribed to ignorance, since vice is
not a man's true interest, though he too often mistakes,
and thinks it is. But this sort of ignorance is an ignorance
which condemns instead of exculpating. For the vicious.
man either knows his act to be wrong or he does not. If
he does not, he must regard it as being right or indifferent,
in either of which cases there is nothing to prevent a man
from doing the act voluntarily; if he does, he cannot honestly
plead ignorance even to himself.
What kind of ignorance is it then that makes an act
involuntary? We have already indicated that it must be
unavoidable ignorance, and we may add to this that it must
be ignorance of some particular point of fact, which alters
the real character of the act from that under which it
presents itself to the agent. In other words, you have to
prove that you never meant to commit the kind of act
which, as a matter of fact, you have committed.
Let us call in again the eye of the body to assist the
vision of the eye of the soul.
drunkenness
anger
done in
carelessness
A wrong
ignorance.
act may
Cause
ignorance in the purpose
self-control
=
lack of
be either
vice
ignorance of the universal
pravity
total de-
or due to ignorance. Cause-ignorance of particulars.
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Since the only kind of ignorance which can rightly be
held to render an act involuntary is unavoidable ignorance
of particulars, it may be as well that we should try to analyse
an act into the combination of details which make it up.
To begin with, there must obviously be an agent, or
person who does the deed, and there must also be an
object, or deed which is done. Next, there is the thing
with regard to which, or it may be the person on whom, the
act is done. There is also the thing with which, as for
instance an instrument; for the agent cannot effect an act
without instruments of some sort, if it be only the limbs of
his own body. Then there is the motive, or final cause
of the act, which is the most important of all the details,
for example, to save. And lastly, there is the manner in
which it is done, as for instance, gently or violently. With-
out pretending then to exhaust the details of an act, which
are practically infinite, we may perhaps sum them up loosely
under these main heads-the agent, the object, the thing
concerned or the person on whom it is done, the means,
the motive and the manner.
Of course no one could be ignorant of all these details,
unless he were stark mad. It is doubtful whether, even
under these circumstances, he could be ignorant of the
agent, to wit himself.
But a man might be ignorant of what he is doing, that is
of the act proper. For instance, people sometimes plead
that the words slipped from them when they were speaking,
or that they did not know that the thing they were telling
was a secret. The latter was the case with Aeschylus,
when he was accused of revealing the mysteries in one of
his plays. His defence was that he did not know that he
had been revealing the mysteries, and this was accepted by
the Court of Areopagus. We had an instance of the same
sort of thing in the lamentable accident which occurred the
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other day. A man was fiddling with the spring of a loaded
catapult, meaning only to show how it was worked, when,
unfortunately, he carried off the head of one of the by-
standers.
Ignorance of the person on whom the act is done
we may illustrate from the Cresphontes of Euripides, in
which Merope has her axe lifted to slay her son, whom she
deems an enemy, but recognises him just in time to avoid
the catastrophe.
As an instance of ignorance of the means or instrument,
we may take the trainer's mistake in choosing a pointed
spear instead of a rounded one, or the use of flint instead
of pumice.
Ignorance of the motive is no more possible in normal
cases than ignorance of the agent. But a mistake may
occur in connexion with it, in that the result may prove
different from what you intended. When the daughters of
Pelias cut up their aged sire and boiled him in a pot, they
were well aware that their motive was a good one.
It was
an act of filial piety. Had not Medea, who knew so much,
told them that this would rejuvenate him? There was
a mistake however somewhere, for the result did not answer
to their expectations. In later times a woman who had
administered to a man a dose of hemlock was acquitted by
the Areopagus. She convinced her judges that what she
meant to give him was a drink of wine with a love-potion
in it.
Ignorance of the manner was exhibited by the training-
master that time he made Coriscus' nose bleed, when he
was sparring with him.
Such then being the combination of details that make up
an act, unavoidable ignorance with regard to any of them
may be held to render an act involuntary, and especially so
in the case of the most important. The most important of
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all, as we have said, is the motive. That is the very essence
of the act. Next to it in importance perhaps comes the
person on whom the act is performed. This makes such
a difference to its character. You slap a comrade, as you
think, on the back, and when he looks round, you see that
it is one of the Nine Archons! But we must not forget
that before we can pronounce a man an involuntary agent
on the ground of such ignorance as we have described,
there must be added the further qualification that he is
sorry for what he has done, when he finds it out. Other-
wise we must set down his action simply as non-voluntary.
Now, at last, we are in a position to define the voluntary
act. We have seen that there are two things-compulsion
and ignorance—either of which may render an act involun-
tary. It follows that a perfectly voluntary act will combine
the two contrary attributes of freedom and knowledge.
We will therefore define the voluntary act to be one of
which the efficient cause is in a man himself, when he knows
the particular circumstances under which the act takes place.
This, I say, is the perfectly voluntary act. Still we need
not scruple to call an act voluntary which is done without
constraint, even if knowledge should be defective or absent,
as in the case of children and the lower animals.
We
would say that a dog acts voluntarily when he runs off after
a bone. He is acting in accordance with his own nature.
If he comes back when his master calls him, he is still
acting in accordance with his own nature, only under
pressure of circumstances. But if his master puts a leash
round his neck and drags him away perforce, then he is not
acting in accordance with his own nature, or indeed acting
at all. So when a stone moves down or fire moves up, it is
following the law of its nature; any other motion must be
imposed upon it from without. In the case of an inanimate
body we do not talk of 'voluntary' action, but rather of
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'spontaneous' or 'automatic' movement: still this move-
ment is essentially analogous to voluntary action in the case
of a living being. For the essence of voluntary action is
that a creature follows the law of its own nature, whatever
that nature may be. The best test of what that nature
really is in the case of a human being is what we have
called 'mixed acts.' The way in which one's nature
responds to exceptional circumstances may be a revelation
even to the possessor of it. There are many things besides
'office' which will show the man.
EUDEMUS. Your account of voluntary action seems quite
clear. Still it is so common to hear people talk of the
victims of passion as acting involuntarily, that I wish you
would supply us with some arguments directly aimed at
this position.
ARISTOTLE. Are you using 'passion' now in the narrower
sense in which we identify it with spirit, or in the wider
sense in which it is equivalent to feeling generally?
EUDEMUS. In a wide sense, but not in the widest.
I want you to show that acts which spring from the
irrational impulses, which you said we were to call 'appetite'
and 'spirit' are not involuntary.
ARISTOTLE. (1) Well, next time you hear people maintain
this, ask them whether they allow that children or the lower
animals ever act voluntarily. They cannot on their prin-
ciples, since the irrational impulses are the sole springs of
action in them.
(2) Next, you may ask them whether all the acts that
spring from these impulses are involuntary, or the right
ones voluntary and the wrong ones involuntary. If they
choose the latter alternative, you may go on to ask them
how these acts can differ as voluntary and involuntary,
when they proceed from one and the same cause.
If, on
the other hand, they choose the former, they will be
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involved in a difficult position in having to say that you
ought to do some things which are involuntary. For
certainly there are some occasions on which one ought
to feel angry, and also certain things which one ought to
covet, for instance, health and learning. But to say that
one ought is to say that one can, and to say that one can
is to say that the thing lies in the power of one's own will
and is voluntary. Suppose you had a friend who was
ound in prison. How impertinent he would think you,
if you were to visit him in his cell, and tell him that he
really ought to take exercise, else his health would suffer!
You see that we have got our friends here on the horns of
a dilemma. Now, Theophrastus, you are dialectician enough
to draw out the argument in its proper logical form.
THEOPHRASTUs. Well, I suppose it might be formulated
thus-
If all the acts which spring from these impulses are
maintained to be involuntary, the position is untrue; and
if only some, the position is inconsistent.
But either all are maintained to be involuntary or only
some.
.. The position is either untrue or inconsistent.
ARISTOTLE. Right. What you have given is a complex
constructive dilemma; and each of the propositions in the
major premiss was supported by a proof, so that the whole
constitutes a train of reasoning consisting of three syllogisms.
NICOMACHUS. I can follow the dilemma, father. But
what are these other syllogisms of which you speak?
ARISTOTLE. We can put them thus, my son-
(1) Nothing that is right can be involuntary.
Some of the acts that are prompted by these impulses are
right.
.. Some of the acts that are prompted by these impulses
are not involuntary.
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This syllogism amounts to saying that if all the acts
which spring from these impulses are involuntary, the
position is untrue.'
(2) Acts which proceed from precisely the same cause
cannot be the one voluntary and the other involuntary.
Right and wrong acts in the case of these impulses
proceed from precisely the same cause.
.. Right and wrong acts in the case of these impulses
cannot be the one voluntary and the other involuntary.
This is equivalent to establishing the other proposition in
the major premiss.
(3) Now we will go on to a third argument.
Involuntary acts are painful.
Acts prompted by appetite are pleasurable.
.. Acts prompted by appetite are not involuntary.
NICOMACHUS. This leaves out all reference to anger,
father.
ARISTOTLE. It does, my son. I have already indicated
my dislike to using the term 'pleasure' to express the
gratification of that impulse. But only a slight change of
expression is needed to make the same argument apply to
anger, or, let us say, to spirit generally.
Involuntary acts are not done for the sake of gratification.
Acts prompted by spirit are done for the sake of gratifica-
tion.
.. Acts prompted by spirit are not involuntary.
(4) In the fourth place, Eudemus, you can ask your
opponents how there can be this difference in involuntariness
between faults of passion and calculated villainy, when both
alike ought to be shunned. If they ought to be shunned, it
proves them both to be voluntary, just as much as if they
ought to be sought.
EUDEMUS. But surely there is a great difference between
these two kinds of faults?
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ARISTOTLE. I am not denying that, but only maintaining
that the difference does not lie in the one being voluntary
and the other involuntary. It lies in the one being pre-
meditated and the other not. But of that anon.
(5) The argument which I have been reserving for the
last place would alone be sufficient to prove our point. It
is this. The irrational impulses are quite as much a part of
man's nature as the reason is. Therefore the acts which
proceed from them are man's acts. It is absurd to put
down appetite and passion as involuntary when these are
the mainsprings of human action.
EUDEMUS. I am afraid I shall require explanation on
some points before I can employ that last argument
effectively.
ARISTOTLE. State your difficulties, and I will try to
remove them.
EUDEMUS. Well, to begin with, I do not know how to
reconcile it with what you told us before. You said that
the divine element in man, by which I understood you to
mean the reason or intellect, was the true self. Now you
say that the passions are quite as much a part of man as
the reason.
ARISTOTLE. There is no real discrepancy there, I think.
The true self is one thing, the man is another thing. The
inmost core of our being does, I believe, partake of the
divine nature; it is the light that shines in us all; it is
imperishable and immortal. You may call it reason or
mind or what you will, provided you understand by it the
thing that rules and guides. I do not mean that as a matter
of fact it always does rule and guide-far from it—but that
it is entitled to do so in virtue of its intrinsic superiority: it
is the natural ruler and guide. In the perfect man you
would see that it is also the actual ruler and guide. But,
notice this, that reason is nothing personal or individual.
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In so far as we are rational we all act alike; I may go
further and say, we are all one. The one light shines alike
in all, but it is splintered into rays and diversely coloured
by the passions. It is these which make the personality,
which some people may prefer to call themselves. The
passions however are connected with the body. It is the
union of a mortal body with an immortal soul that makes
what we call man, a being half deity and half dust.
EUDEMUS. I see the difference now between 'man' and
'the true self.' My next difficulty was to know what you
meant by saying that appetite and passion are the main-
springs of human action. What has become of the third
form of impulse of which you told us, namely, wish? If
man's actions proceed only from appetite and passion or
spirit, wherein is he distinguished from the brutes?
ARISTOTLE. By the fact that his appetite and spirit may
be guided by reason, whereas they live solely by impulse.
Wish, or the desire for the good, is feeling enlightened by
reason; it is a deferred form of appetite or passion. Since
reason, as I have told you more than once, is not an active
principle at all, we are thrown back for the origination
of action upon the animal instincts. These may be filtered
through all kinds of channels and refined beyond recogni-
tion: but for all that man cannot escape from the fact
that he is an animal, and his moral nature must still be
grounded on his physical.
EUDEMUS. Does not this leave a rather low origin for
virtue ?
ARISTOTLE. Many very noble things have rather low
origins. Remember the story of Amasis and his footpan.
But the lowness of the origin may be only in our imagina-
tions. The tree that soars to heaven has its roots fixed in
the soil of earth, and we call these roots 'dirty,' and would
wash our hands after grubbing in them before we dined.
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But to the eye of reason there is no dirt in matter except
what mind puts into it.
However, the animal instincts are not all base even in
our view of them. How often we are compelled to admire
the spirit of the lower animals and their devotion to their
young! What limit then shall be put to the capacities
of these instincts when illuminated by the light from
above?
But, lastly, when you come to think of it, what other
origin is possible for virtue except that which I have
indicated? Virtue-we are both of us speaking now of
moral virtue-has been found to consist in the control
of the passions by the reason. The lower animals are
below morality, because they are governed solely by
passion; the gods are above morality, because they are
pure reason. Morality is only possible to a being inter-
mediate between the brute and the god. It is rendered
possible only in and through the animal instincts.
EUDEMUS. I am afraid you will be weary of my difficulties
and objections, if I do not desist now.
ARISTOTLE. I am never weary of difficulties and objec-
tions. How can one expect to get at the truth of a question
without examining it carefully on every side?
EUDEMUS. Well then I will confess that there still seems
to me to be room for calling acts prompted by appetite and
anger involuntary. For these acts are forced upon the true
self by a cause external to itself, and so they satisfy your
own definition of the compulsory. The true self contributes
nothing to them, and they are not really done but suffered.
Indeed the word passion-if it be not impious to turn
against yourself a weapon which you have taught me to
wield-would seem to indicate this. It brands these so-
called 'acts' as being really so many outrages put upon the
majesty of the natural ruler.
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ARISTOTLE. Well done, Eudemus! If you expound my
doctrine some day as ably as you oppose it now, I shall
have reason to be content. Your questions tempt me off
the main track of the argument, but, as we have digressed
so much already, we may as well digress a little more,
and not leave this subject until we have threshed it
thoroughly out.
You remember my telling you that the essence of
voluntary action lay in a thing following the law of its
own nature, whatever that nature may be. Well, the nature
of a stone, or of any inanimate object, is a comparatively
simple matter. A stone has power to move down, so as to
rejoin the mass of its kindred nature, but it has no power
to move up. Fire, on the same principle, has power to
move up, but it has no power to move down. A stone we
believe not to be conscious of the impulse within it but an
animal is conscious of it. The nature of the lower animals,
however, is still comparatively simple, for their impulses
are wholly irrational. But man is torn by conflicting
impulses to follow the good which appeals to him at the
moment or to follow the good which reason declares to him
to be higher. Hence his nature is more or less dual.
Looking at the matter from this point of view, there are
four characters, or rather types of character, to be dis-
tinguished-
Temperate,
Self-controlled,
Uncontrolled,
Intemperate.
At the bottom of the scale there is the totally depraved
man, whom we call 'intemperate,' because he is the anti-
podes of the temperate. There is no war in his nature,
because reason has been perverted by passion: he uses his
reason, not to enable him to discern the higher end, but
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only to devise means for the attainment of the lower. He
is so bad that he does not know that he is bad, and this is
the worst kind of badness, just as the worst kind of ignorance
is the ignorance that fancies itself knowledge.
Above him in the moral scale there is the man who lacks
self-control. In him the light of reason shines clear enough,
but it is obscured every now and then by the fumes of
passion, so that he does the thing which he himself knows
to be wrong. There is war in his nature, and the issue
of the struggle is the victory of passion over reason. He
goes on sinning and repenting, repenting and sinning. If
his repentance should at any time prove vigorous enough,
it may raise him out of this state; if he ceases to repent, he
will fall into the state of the man below him.
Above this character stands the man of self-control,
of whom we have denied that he is virtuous, in the perfect
sense which constitutes happiness, while we admit that he
is worthy of all praise. There is still war in his nature, but
the issue of the struggle is different. It is the victory of
reason over passion. If he perseveres in subduing his
passions, they will become at length so trained into
obedience to the reason, that they will make instinctively
for the goal which it approves. The character in whom
this final victory has been achieved is called the temperate
man, whom we have set at the summit of all. There is no
longer war in his nature, for the passions have been brought
into harmony with the reason.
Thus you see that the two extreme characters, both
of which are ideal rather than real, have a nature as simple
as that of the lower animals. It is the intermediate
characters, to which the bulk of mankind belongs, which are
dual. In them you may say that one part of the soul is
forced by the other. In the man of self-control the passions
are forced by the reason; in the man who lacks self-control
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the reason is forced by the passions. The actions of both
may be said to be involuntary, in respect of a part of their
nature. But in respect of the whole soul, which is what we
mean by the man, this is not so. The man follows his
nature, whether for good or evil. His bursts of passion
are as much his own acts and voluntary as his most rational
conduct.
In the same way a state may be torn by factions internally,
but, whichever party prevails, its acts are still the acts of the
state.
LECTURE XVI
NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 2]
THE PURPOSED ACT DEFINED
HAVING sufficiently examined the voluntary and the
involuntary, we must next endeavour to ascertain wherein
exactly an act done on purpose differs from a merely
voluntary act.
Whatever else purpose may be, we know this much.
about it, that it is the thing most intimately connected with
virtue. We are so sure of this, that we assumed it in our
definition. We may say also that it is a better test of moral
character than actions themselves are. I mean that it
would be a better test of character, if we could get at it.
But, as a matter of fact, the purpose is hidden away from
us, and we are obliged to judge a man by his acts. Still,
if by some means the inner could suddenly be turned into
the outer, we should know a great deal more than we do
of the real character of people, and many surprises might
be in store for us.
As an act done on purpose is a species of voluntary
act, so purpose itself may be declared to be a species
of voluntary agency. Children and the lower animals are
as capable of voluntary agency as men, but we do not
allow that they partake of purpose. Again, acts done on
THE PURPOSED ACT DEFINED
157
the spur of the moment are voluntary enough, but we do
not say that they are done on purpose. But it is not
enough to say that an act done on purpose is a species
of voluntary act, or that purpose itself is a species of
voluntary agency, we must say definitely what species.
In setting out to discover purpose, it is evident that it is
in the soul that we must look for it. Now we divide the
soul roughly into two parts-the irrational and the rational.
You may call the one the emotions and the other the
intellect, the one the passions, and the other the reason,
the one the heart and the other the head: it does not
matter, so long as you recognise what I mean.
Purpose seems to come from the heart. Let us search
for it therefore first on that side of man's nature. The
feelings or passions individually have a great variety of
names, but we trace them all to the three impulses, with
which you are by this time familiar, as appetite, spirit or
passion, and wish. If purpose is something merely emotional,
it must come under one or other of these three heads.
But purpose is not appetite for the following reasons-
(1) Appetite is common to the lower animals; purpose
is not.
(2) The man who lacks self-control acts from appetite or
desire and not from purpose, whereas the self-controlled
man acts from purpose, and not from desire.
(3) Appetite is opposed to purpose, but one appetite is
not opposed to another.
(4) The object of appetite is always the pleasant; the
object of purpose is not.
(5) Appetite is always attended with pain; purpose
is not.
These five arguments are, I think, sufficient to show
that purpose is not identical with appetite or desire.
THEOPHRASTUS. I can follow them all except the third,
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in which, if I may make so bold as to say it, you seem to
me either to be assuming the point at issue or to be saying
what is not true. If, when you say that appetite is opposed
to purpose, you mean only that it is not the same with it,
that is the point which your arguments were directed to
prove but if, on the other hand, you mean that appetite
runs counter to purpose, then it seems to me untrue to
say that one appetite cannot run counter to another. May
not, for instance, the desire for money run counter to the
desire for pleasure, without any question of right or wrong
intervening? Or may not a man be distracted between
desires for different pleasures, so as to hesitate, for instance,
whether he shall go to the theatre or rather stay at home
to carry on an intrigue with a lady ?
Aristotle. Your objection is well put. But I think it
attaches to the form rather than to the substance of the
argument. Perhaps I might have expressed my meaning
better, if I had said 'Appetite contradicts purpose, but one
appetite does not contradict another.' Now it is impossible.
for two people to contradict one another, unless they are
talking of the same thing. But appetite being blind and
irrational, knows nothing of any object but its own. Hence
two appetites can never contradict one another. Hunger
says 'Eat.' It may be so strong as to make us forget to
drink for a while, but it never says 'Don't drink.' On the
other hand, appetite is constantly contradicting purpose, and
saying 'Do this, that and the other,' when purpose has said
'Thou shalt not do it.' In so far as the love of money is
a mere blind appetite for accumulation, it does not directly
contradict any other desire, but only indirectly, as being
stronger than the other at a given moment: but in so far
as it is a preference for the remoter over the immediate
good, it becomes a form of purpose.
The next form of impulse is spirit or passion. But much
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the same reasons apply to this as to the other irrational form
of impulse. Purpose is not spirit or passion. For-
not.
(1) Spirit is common to the lower animals; purpose is
(2) There is such a thing as incontinence of spirit as well
as of appetite, and the man who lacks self-restraint acts from
passion, and not from purpose, whereas the self-restrained
man acts from purpose, and not from passion.
(3) Passion contradicts purpose, but one passion does
not contradict another.
The
(4) The object of passion is its own special gratification;
the object of purpose is the good of the whole man.
last argument which we used in the case of appetite does
not apply to this form of impulse. For though hatred is
always attended with pain, love is attended with pleasure,
and is only indirectly a source of pain.
THEOPHRASTUs. I seemed to myself to be quite convinced
by your answer to my last objection. But the difficulty has
broken out again with redoubled force, when you come to
apply to the passions the same argument as you did to the
appetites, about their not contradicting one another. Surely
love says 'help' and hate 'refrain from helping,' revenge
says 'slay' and pity 'spare'?
ARISTOTLE. I confess that I was in some doubt myself as
to whether to apply it so or not. The passions do indeed
seem to contradict one another. Medea's hatred for her
husband and thirst for vengeance prompt her to slay her
children; a mother's love and compassion whisper her to
spare them and herself; and so she remains irresolute for
a time, with her soul swept by alternate gusts of passion,
until the stronger prevails. But we must distinguish between
the passions themselves and the reasoning that lights them
to their gratification. It was an act of reflection that
convinced Medea that the husband could best be wounded
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through the children. But the passions in themselves are
mere gropings in the dark. After all, love only says
'Gratify me' and hate 'Gratify me,' so that the contradic-
tion between them is indirect. They are like children
crying Me, me' in answer to 'Who'll have'? This is
different from the direct contradiction between the child who
says 'I will have' and the mother who says 'You shall not.'
Purpose presents a much greater appearance of resem-
blance to the third species of impulse, which we have called
'wish.' For this, like it, is rational. Nevertheless purpose
is not identical with wish. Three arguments will suffice to
prove this point-
(1) We may wish for the impossible, but we do not
purpose it.
You may wish to be able to fly, or to be king of all the
world, or to live for ever. But if you were to say that you
purposed any of these things, your friends would begin to
think about a strait-waistcoat.
(2) We may wish for what depends on others, but we do
not purpose it.
Among things which are not impossible in their own
nature there are many which we have no power to effect,
for instance, that a favourite actor or athlete should win.
We may wish vehemently for these things, but we only
purpose what is in our own power. Mark that point
particularly, for we shall want to use it afterwards.
(3) We wish for the end, but we purpose the means. For
instance, we wish to be well, but we purpose to take a pill.
Again, we wish to be happy, and there is no harm in saying
so: but to say 'We purpose to be so' is unsuitable. For it
is the means only that are in our own power, and the desired
end may, after all, not crown our efforts. After we have taken
all the means that are open to us to ensure health and
happiness, we may still fail to attain them.
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We do not find purpose then on the emotional side of
man's nature. It is not identical with any of the three forms
of impulse. But perhaps it comes from the head, not from.
the heart. Let us search for it therefore on the intellectual
side.
Here we have first to distinguish broadly between know-
ledge and opinion. Knowledge deals only with things
which cannot be otherwise than as they are. Opinion may
be extended to these, but its proper sphere is things which,
as a matter of fact, are one way, but which might conceivably
be another. Of the latter kind is the whole range of things
'doable,' to which purpose is manifestly confined. Nay, we
have gone further, and limited it already to things in our
own power to do. We may therefore put knowledge out of
the question altogether, and confine ourselves to considering
whether purpose is identical with opinion.
Two arguments may be urged which seem fatal to this
view-
(1) We may hold opinions on all subjects, but we only
purpose what is in our own power.
You may hold your own opinion, for what it is worth, on
the infinite divisibility of matter or on the commensurability
or incommensurability of the diagonal and the side of
a square: but purpose, it is plain, cannot affect such things.
Again, you may have your opinion as to the desirability of
ends, but you only purpose the means.
(2) Opinion is divided into true and false, purpose into
good and bad.
THEOPHRASTUs. I do not think any one is likely to
maintain the identity of purpose with opinion in general.
But might it not with more plausibility be alleged that
purpose is the same thing with opinion on matters of action?
One never does anything without having an opinion that
there is some good to be got by it. If I come to your
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lectures, it is because I have an opinion that some benefit
will accrue to me thereby. May it not therefore be maintained
that it is this opinion which makes me come?
ARISTOTLE. Well, we will discuss the question on the
narrower ground of the possible identity of purpose with
opinion as to conduct. But I think you will find that the
very same objections tell against this view, and others as well.
(1) It is our purposing to do good or evil that decides.
our characters, not our opinions.
People may hold what appear to be very queer opinions,
and yet be very good men, if, when it comes to a question
of conduct, they deliberately choose the right. You can
never judge a man from his views.
(2) Purpose is practical, opinion, even on matters of
action, is still purely speculative.
Common language recognises this distinction. We talk
of 'purposing' to take or avoid, but we do not talk of
'having an opinion' to do so. Rather we talk of having
an opinion as to what a thing is,
or how it is.
or for whose interest it is,
(3) The perfection of purpose is to be right, that of
opinion to be true.
When I speak thus of purpose being right, you must
understand me to refer to its end being right. To purpose
rightly the means to a bad end would not be the perfection
of purpose. By 'right' I mean 'morally right.'
(4) We purpose the things which we are most sure are
good; we often hold opinions where we are not quite sure.
How often do you hear a man say, 'I don't know such
and such a thing, but I will give you my opinion for what it
is worth.' Opinion is thus a substitute for certainty, whereas
purpose is attended by the greatest certainty attainable.
(5) Lastly, a man may have sound opinions, while his
purposes are warped by vice.
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These arguments, Theophrastus, are enough, I think, to
disprove the identity of purpose with opinion as to conduct.
The last indeed would be sufficient by itself. But suppose
we admitted, for the sake of argument, that purpose always
went hand in hand with opinion as to matters of action,
still it would not follow that the two are identical. Two
things may always go together as a matter of fact and yet
be mentally distinguishable. Who confounds colour and
extension? And yet you never find the one without the
other. Even if all the students who were of opinion that
there was some good to be gained by coming to my lectures,
were as diligent in their attendance as you, still the opinion
as to the good would be one thing and the purpose to come
would be another.
Let us now glance back upon what we have been doing.
We looked for purpose on the side of the heart, and failed
to find it among the emotions, even when enlightened by
reason. We then turned to the side of the head, and
looked for purpose there: but there also we failed to find
it. Where are we to look further?
NICOMACHUS. But, father, there is nowhere else to look.
For you said that man might be divided into heart and
head.
ARISTOTLE. And yet there is undoubtedly such a thing
as purpose in the soul.
NICOMACHUS. Then I suppose it must be the joint result
of both.
ARISTOTLE. That is exactly the conclusion to which
I wished to lead you, my son. Purpose comes neither
exclusively from the head nor yet exclusively from the heart.
That is why we failed to find it under either taken singly.
There is in it an intellectual element, and there is in it also
an emotional element. The intellectual element which
enters into the composition of purpose is deliberation.
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Before we can say that an act is done on purpose we have
to know, that it is not merely voluntary, but also pre-
meditated. Now we see what differentiates the result of
purpose from a voluntary act generally. It is the element
of deliberation which purpose involves. We might call the
result of purpose an act of preference, and so indicate in its
very name its intellectual character. For 'preference' means
choosing one thing before others. But you cannot do this
without comparing the things; and comparison is of the
very essence of thought. The act done on purpose there-
fore may be defined as a voluntary act which has been
previously deliberated upon.'
Having discovered now that purpose is of a composite
nature, it remains that we should examine each element in
it separately, in order that we may exhaust its meaning.
This however must form the subject of our next lecture.
LECTURE XVII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 3, 4]
THE INTELLECTUAL ELEMENT IN PURPOSE:
THE
EMOTIONAL ELEMENT IN PURPOSE: PURPOSE
DEFINED
TO-DAY we have to determine the sphere of deliberation.
Is it conterminous with the universe of things? Or are there
some things to which deliberation is inapplicable? By 'the
sphere of deliberation' you will, of course, understand me
to mean the proper sphere of deliberation. A fool or
madman might fancy anything to come within the scope
of his counsels, but we need concern ourselves only with
the views of sane and sensible men. Let us approach the
subject cautiously, and arrive at the sphere of deliberation
as the result of a series of exclusions.
Taking things in general we may divide them, to begin
with, into those which are eternal and immutable, and
those which admit of movement or change of some sort.
Of the former nature is the universe itself, by which
I mean the eternal substance of the universe. All states
of the universe indeed are liable to change, but the universe
itself knows nothing of generation or decay, but is ever-
lastingly and imperishably the same. Equally exempt from
change, though in a somewhat different way, are the truths
of mathematics. Who deliberates, for instance, as to
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whether the three angles of a triangle shall be equal to two
right angles? Truths of this sort are not things that have
been or shall be, but things that are. You may know
them or not; you may discover the truth or it may escape
you; but that is a different thing from deliberating about.
it. It is plain then that we may exclude the unchangeable
from the sphere of deliberation, and confine our attention
to things that admit of movement or change of some sort.
But here again a distinction must be observed. Things
may change, and yet their change may be from some cause
or other, whether by necessity or by nature, regular and
periodic. In this case deliberation is as much out of the
question as with regard to things that admit of no change
at all. No one deliberates about the courses of the planets,
or about the returning seasons, or the alternations of night
and day. We are thus limited to things which do not
always take place in the same way.
These may be distinguished into those which depend on
man and those which do not. The latter, for the sake of
a general name, we will lump together under the title of
'the spontaneous.' These, whether they depend on chance
or luck, are equally outside the sphere of deliberation.
EUDEMUS. May I ask what is the distinction that you
draw between 'chance' and 'luck'?
ARISTOTLE. By 'luck' I mean something which, though
not depending on man, has still some reference to him and
his fortunes. The close connexion that there is between
'good luck' and 'happiness' is sufficient to show that the
former has some bearing upon human action. Understand
me then to mean by 'luck' unexpected success not fol-
lowing from a man's own conduct as effect from cause.
With regard to such a thing it is plain that deliberation
would be out of place. In laying his plans for life no one
would seriously take into account the chance of turning up
XVII] INTELLECTUAL ELEMENT IN PURPOSE
167
a treasure. By 'chance' in the present context I mean
the whole range of the fortuitous exclusive of what we have
embraced under the term luck. You may take the weather
as an instance. It defies deliberation because it is abso-
lutely variable.
Things which depend on man may be divided into
things which depend on ourselves and things which depend
on others. About the latter no man deliberates; for in-
stance, no Lacedaemonian deliberates as to how the
Scythians or Indians may best be governed. In so far
indeed as we can influence the actions of others they do
form a proper subject for deliberation, but to that extent
they may be said in a way to depend upon ourselves.
Thus the sphere of deliberation is narrowed down to
things in our own power to do. The following scheme
will enable you to take in at a glance the process which we
have been pursuing-
Things
eternal and immutable
liable to change
1
periodic and invariable
not invariable
from necessity
from nature
spontaneous
1
fortuitous
resulting
from luck
depending
on man
depending on others
on our-
selves.
If you consider the causes that there are, you will see
that we have excluded the effects of all of them except
human agency from the domain of deliberation.
For,
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apart from man, there are no causes but necessity, nature,
spontaneity, and luck, and these we have severally elimi-
nated.
EUDEMUS. Do you put spontaneity and luck on the
same level as necessity and nature?
ARISTOTLE. No, they are rather negative, while the
others are positive. If anything takes place within the
sphere of nature apart from the operation of nature, we
call it spontaneous, and if anything takes place within
the sphere of human agency apart from that agency, we
ascribe it to luck. But we need not refine about these
matters now.
Even within the circumscribed sphere which has been
left to deliberation there are further exclusions which have
to be made.
(1) There are certain things in our own power about
which we do not deliberate, simply because they do not
need it, being already fixed and settled. This is so in the
case of such branches of knowledge as are already exact
and complete. Thus an educated person requires no
deliberation about writing, being in no doubt how to form
the letters or spell the syllables. Hence we deliberate
about the arts in inverse proportion to the precision to
which they have attained. Medicine, navigation, and money-
getting offer plentiful scope for deliberation; gymnastic-
training less so, owing to the way in which it has been
reduced to system.
To render things in our own power therefore proper
matter for deliberation, they must not be always done in
the same way, but must be such as to vary within limits,
being uncertain in their issue, and having in them an
element of indefiniteness. You must understand this in-
definiteness to proceed from our lack of knowledge rather
than from the arbitrary nature of the things themselves:
XVII] INTELLECTUAL ELEMENT IN PURPOSE 169
for in so far as there was an absolute uncertainty attaching
to them they would not be fit subjects for deliberation at
all. The sphere of deliberation may be said to lie as it
were between two poles. If things are absolutely fixed,
deliberation is superfluous; if they are absolutely variable,
deliberation is useless.
It is this element of indefiniteness, which we have
recognised as essential to the sphere of deliberation, that
makes us so often distrust our own judgements and take
counsel with others wherever important issues are involved.
The
(2) Further, it must be observed that it is means only
that are the objects of deliberation and not ends.
doctor, as such, does not deliberate as to whether he shall
cure his patient, nor the orator as to whether he shall
persuade, nor the statesman as to whether he shall produce
good laws or effect whatever else we may set down as
being the end of statecraft; but the end being already
assumed as good, deliberation points out the best means
of achieving it. The way in which it does this may be
compared to the process by which the proof of some
proposition is arrived at in geometry. 'I am sure,' says
a geometer to himself, 'that the angles at the base of an
isosceles triangle are equal to one another; but how am
I to prove it? You can prove things equal to one another
by showing that they are equal to the same thing, but that
does not seem to help me much in this case. Stop!
I think I see a better way. If I can show that these
angles are the remainders, when equals are taken from
equals, that will show that they are themselves equal.
Therefore I must have angles which contain these angles
and something more. And if these larger angles are to be
proved equal, they must belong to triangles which have two
sides and the contained angle equal; the same condition
also applies to the smaller angles which I wish to take
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from them.
But all I have to go on is that the two sides
of the isosceles triangle itself are equal; and there is the
angle at the vertex which might be used as a contained
angle common to the two large triangles. That gives me
one side and an angle. The other side containing the
angle can be got by extending the sides of the isosceles
triangle.'
This, or something like this, is the process which goes
on in the geometer's mind in the attempt to discover
a proof. But now he has brought the matter down to
something requiring to be done, and accordingly he begins
his construction from this point. 'Let the sides AB, AC,’
he says, 'be produced to D and E.'
In the same way, when a man is deliberating as to the
attainment of some end, his first step is to consider how
or by what means it can be accomplished. If there are
several means, he has to decide between them, as to
which is the easiest and best. If there is only one means,
the matter is so far simplified, but he may have to raise
the question how to employ that means, and also by what
means it in its turn is to be brought about. And so he
goes on until he has brought the matter down to the first
cause, which is the last to be discovered. This must be
something in his own power to do: for, if it were not,
further deliberation would be required as to how to get it
done. But when once the matter has been brought home
to one's own will the time for deliberation is over, and the
hour for action has struck.
EUDEMUS. Are we to understand that deliberation and
mathematical investigation are the same?
ARISTOTLE. They are not the same, but they are cognate
species of the same genus, which genus we may call
investigation. Deliberation is always investigation, but
investigation is not always deliberation. It would not be
XVII] INTELLECTUAL ELEMENT IN PURFOSE 171
proper, for instance, to speak of a mathematical investi-
gation, such as that which we have just been using for an
example, as deliberation. Deliberation has action in view,
not knowledge. You may define it as that species of
investigation which relates to conduct.
NICOMACHUS. Will you not give us an example of de-
liberation, father, just as you did of mathematical investi-
gation?
ARISTOTLE. It is a thing of which every one's own ex-
perience can supply him with examples. Let us imagine
a young man ambitious of military glory. The end is
settled for him without question of its goodness, the
problem being only how to attain it. 'If I am to have
military glory,' he says to himself, 'I must learn the pro-
fession of arms. But war can only be learnt in war.
If so,
Therefore I must serve under the king in Asia.
I must get a commission. Antipater might do that for me,
but he is in Thessaly at present. Shall I write to him?
The letter might fail to reach him or he might neglect it.
I had much better go in person, and remind him of his
friendship for my father. If I go by land he may have
left before I get there. There is a vessel leaving the
Piraeus to-day for Eïon, but it starts in three hours. I must
pack up my things at once.' And so where the train of
thought ended the train of action begins. Everything now
comes in reverse order. The young man packs up his
things, goes down to the Piraeus, sails to Thessaly, sees
Antipater, gets his commission, serves under the king, and,
let us hope, obtains the military glory for which he was
panting. But, as I have often reminded you, means are
much more in our own power than ends.
If
If an impossibility should occur in the train of thought,
it is, of course, never succeeded by the train of action.
the young man, for instance, found it quite impossible to
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muster enough money to pay for his passage, his fame as
a general would be nipped in the bud.
The possible may be defined, for present purposes, as
'what can be effected by ourselves.' But this must be
taken in a large sense so as to include what can be effected
for us by our friends, since the efficient cause in such cases
lies with us.
Sometimes the question under deliberation is--What are
the instruments? and sometimes-How are we to use
them? A battering-ram would be of little good to a man
who did not know how to work it. To put the same thing
more generally, we sometimes deliberate as to what the
means are, sometimes how to use them or whose agency to
employ. But, to come back now to the point on which we
were insisting, namely, that deliberation is concerned with
means, not with ends, the following argument will serve
to clinch the matter-
Deliberation is concerned with actions.
Actions are always means.
.. Deliberation is concerned with means.
THEOPHRASTUs. I thought we were to understand that
good action is the end of life, or at all events, the main
constituent of it. How then can you say that actions are
always means?
ARISTOTLE. Because by good action I do not mean an
isolated act, but a course of right action indicative of
a permanent mental state from which it proceeds. But if
you take any single act in such a course, you will always
find that it has some end in view-if no other, then at all
events the realisation of right. However, we are wandering
from the restrictions which we had to impose upon the
sphere of deliberation.
(3) Lastly, then, since deliberation is an intellectual pro-
cess, it is plain that it is not concerned with immediate
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facts of perception; for these are determined by the senses,
not by the intellect. No one deliberates as to whether his
dinner is cooked to his liking. If deliberation had to
concern itself with such things as these, action could never
begin, since the facts of sense are practically endless.
Having spoken of the intellectual element in purpose, it is
now time that we should speak of the emotional element.
'Impulse' or 'craving' generally is the reaching out of
the soul after something. The highest form assumed by
this principle is 'wish,' which is the reaching out of the
soul after its highest good, or what it believes to be such.
It is this highest form of impulse which enters into the
composition of purpose. It fixes the end for which delibera-
tion supplies the means.
Here we are met at the outset by a difference of opinion
as to the end or object of wish. Is it one's real good?
Or only what one takes to be such? Both views are
attended with some difficulty. To say that no one ever
wishes for anything but his true good amounts to saying
that the vicious man never really wishes at all, since his
true good is about the last thing he would choose. In that
case all his acts must be set down as springing from passion
and appetite, like those of brutes, and we must deny that
he is ever prompted by the rational principle of self-love.
But this seems contrary to facts. There are many bad men
who will forego immediate gratification, for the prospect of
what they conceive to be a greater good.
On the other hand, to say that the object of wish is
simply the apparent good is to deny that anything is in its
own nature worth wishing for, whether men wish for it or
not. This would make everything relative to the individual,
and would involve us in a violation of the Law of Contra-
diction for the same thing would in that case be both
worth wishing for and not worth wishing for, and things.
:
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quite contrary in their own nature would be both alike
worth wishing for.
Perhaps the truth is that the object of wish is both the
real and the apparent good. Nothing indeed is in itself
worth wishing for but what is truly good, but relatively to
the individual many things are objects of wish which are
only apparent goods.
THEOPHRASTUs. But then, since wish must always be felt
by some one, how are we ever to get to know what is in
itself worth wishing for?
ARISTOTLE. You must take the wishes of the perfect
man as your standard; he is an index to you of the truth
of things; in him the absolute and the relative coincide,
for his wishes are set upon that which is truly worth wishing
for. We may accept the formula of Protagoras that 'Man
is the measure of all things,' if only it be rightly interpreted.
It is the ideally wise man who is the standard and the
measure of what is right and beautiful, not any man you
please to take, not yourself or your next-door neighbour.
For it is only the lover of virtue who is capable of appreci-
ating its attractions. Others are led astray by pleasure,
which seems to be a good without being one. Their
opinion is about as valuable as that of the child that thinks
its hoop or doll of more importance than affairs of state.
As well might we regard physic as being wholesome in
itself, because it is so to persons in a morbid condition, as
take the ideas of imperfect and peccable beings, misled by
the glamour of pleasure, as the standard of the truly desir-
able. No, we must look away from these, and look only
at the wise man. He is the standard of truth, physical,
mental, and moral. For in his opinions there is this
marked difference from the opinions of the multitude, that
his perceptions and sentiments correspond with reality.
What he feels to be bitter and sweet and hot and heavy is
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PURPOSE DEFINED
really so; what he thinks of value is of value; and the
acts that he regards as right and pleasant are so in the
nature of things. But do not imagine that things are made
what they are by his judgement of them on the contrary,
they are what they are, and his judgement is right because
it agrees with them. For there is an absolute truth, which
the wise man does not make but reveal. Truth does not
depend upon his judgement any more than the flight of
time depends upon the water-clock.
We must come back now to the act done on purpose,
into the nature of which we have been inquiring with
a view to the definition of purpose itself.
We have already defined an act done on purpose as
'a voluntary act which has been previously deliberated
upon.' But if you want thoroughly to examine a thing,
you should turn it about on every side. Let us therefore
take as a genus what served us as differentia in this
definition, and so define the act done on purpose from
another point of view. Since deliberation lays before you
all the ways of attaining a given end, and purpose carries
out one of them, it is plain that the object of purpose is
❝ that one among the objects of deliberation which is selected
for action. This definition differs in form but not in sub-
stance from the preceding one: the meaning will not be
altered if we say that the object of purpose is 'an act which
is preferred on deliberation.' You will observe that in
every form of the definition there is a reference to action.
If the thing were only approved on deliberation without
being carried out into action, it would be an object of
opinion only, not of purpose. Purpose may be said to be
the executive department in the soul of man. When wish
has prescribed an end, and the intellect has passed judge-
ment as to the means, then it remains for purpose to carry
out their resolves. Even so in the old Homeric state the
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chiefs in high conclave used to settle upon a line of policy,
and then report it to the commons, to have it carried into
effect.
Notwithstanding the way in which we have already tor-
tured the definition of an act done on purpose, I propose
to twist it into yet another shape before we let it rest. The
course of our inquiry has shown us that both purpose and
deliberation are concerned only with things in our own
power. Herein they differ from mere wish and opinion.
It has shown us also the compound nature of an act done
on purpose, as involving both emotional and intellectual
elements. Perhaps it would be well to bring out these
points distinctly in our definition. Let us say then that the
object of purpose is 'something in our own power towards
the attainment of which we feel a deliberate impulse. From
this it is easy to pass to a definition of purpose itself as,
a deliberate impulse towards the attainment of things in our
own power.'
And so now the third step has at last been taken, and we
have succeeded in defining purpose, as before we defined
virtue, and before that again happiness. The definition
enables us to see why purpose is so vitally important in
questions of morality. It is because it is the outcome both
of heart and head, and is therefore the full expression of
the whole man. What a man's purpose is, that the man is.
If his purpose is good, the man is good; if his purpose is
bad, he is a bad man.
EUDEMUS. But if purpose is only concerned with means,
I hardly see that it has all the importance which you are
now assigning to it.
ARISTOTLE. Purpose being, as I have said, the executive
faculty in man is concerned directly only with the means,
but then they are means to a predetermined end, and
the purpose cannot be judged apart from this end. It is
XVII] INTELLECTUAL ELEMENT IN PURPOSE
177
because of its active nature that purpose is so all-important.
You might have a bare wish which never got translated into
act; you might have deliberation which resulted in nothing:
but when the reason approves of what the feelings prompt,
nothing can prevent action from following except some form
of moral or physical paralysis.
N
LECTURE XVIII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 5]
VOLUNTARINESS OF VIRTUE AND VICE
HAVING shown that the end which a man sets before
himself depends upon his own wish, and that the means
thereto are adopted deliberately and on purpose, it is clear
that we have established the equal voluntariness of virtue
and vice. For both virtue and vice resolve themselves into
a series of acts, and acts are always means to something
beyond themselves. As means therefore they are objects
of deliberation and purpose, and therefore a fortiori come
under the head of the voluntary, which embraces even
acts that are not done on purpose. We may express this
argument succinctly thus-
Virtue and vice are acts;
Acts are means;
Means are objects of deliberation and purpose;
Objects of deliberation and purpose are voluntary.
.. Virtue and vice are voluntary.
This proves that virtue and vice are voluntary, but it proves
a good deal more on the way. In reality we require only
a single syllogism-
All acts are voluntary;
Virtue and vice are acts;
.. Virtue and vice are voluntary.
In the face however of all that we hear about the in-
voluntariness of vice, it might seem somewhat discourteous
to dismiss the subject so cavalierly as this. Let us then
VOLUNTARINESS OF VIRTUE AND VICE
179
devote the morning to a full discussion of the question.
You, Theophrastus, shall watch the case on behalf of the
involuntariness of vice, and put in a plea in its favour
whenever you find a fitting opportunity.
But it seems
No one denies the voluntariness of virtue.
to me that to admit this is to admit the equal voluntariness
of vice. For virtue, to be virtue, must be attended with
reason, and every rational power is a power of contraries.
The physician who knows how to cure must also know how
to kill. His power is a different kind of power from the
irrational power of heat. Heat is only able to warm: it is
not able to refrain from warming.
THEOPHRASTUS. Well, I suppose that virtue in like man-
ner can only do right. It would be as impossible for virtue
to do wrong as for heat to make us cold.
ARISTOTLE. That is well said. But when I speak of the
voluntariness of virtue or vice, you must understand me to
mean that the virtuous or vicious man is a free agent, that
there is no force acting upon him except what comes from
his own nature, except, in fact, himself. If he knows the
right and the wrong, it is as open to him to choose the one
as the other. Where he can do, he can refrain from doing,
and where he can say 'No,' he can say 'Yes.' Since then
it is in our power to do right or to do wrong, and since it is
doing right or wrong that makes us good or bad, it follows
that it is in our own power to be virtuous or vicious.
THEOPHRASTUS. Does not Solon or somebody say—
'None's wicked with, nor happy 'gainst, his will'?
ARISTOTLE. Your memory for once is at fault, Theo-
phrastus. What the poet really said was-
'None's wretched with, nor happy 'gainst, his will.'
But, supposing he did say the other thing, I should simply
reply that the line was partly false and partly true. It is
N 2
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true enough to say that no man is unwilling to be happy :
but a man's wickedness is all his own doing.
If this be denied, we must deny that there is any origin-
ating power in man, whereas I am prepared to maintain
that man is pre-eminently an origin, or cause of movement.
Every living being is by nature an origin in the sense that
it is capable of producing many beings like itself. Thus
man produces men, a brute brutes, and a plant plants.
But, beyond all this, man is an origin in the sense that he
originates actions, and so is capable of producing an effect
upon the world in a manner unknown to lower beings.
The lower animals only inherit the earth, but man's agency
transforms it. If man's actions then originate in him-
self-and it is hard to see where else they can originate-
it must be admitted that they are in his own power and
voluntary.
That our actions originate in ourselves is a thing that
we all feel, and the point may be further proved by the
practice of legislators, who employ rewards and punishments
in order to incite to virtue or deter from vice. But if our
acts were not in our own power, rewards and punishments
would be beside the mark. It would be a waste of good
motives to bring them to bear upon anything but the real
efficient. When a thing is judged not to be in our own
power, no one urges us to do it or refrain from doing it.
Who would exhort a starving man not to be hungry?
Or a man under a broiling sun to keep himself cool?
Or a man with a toothache not to feel pain?
Hence the only excuse that legislators admit for a wrong
act is, if it can be shown to have been done under compul-
sion, or to have been due to an ignorance for which the
apparent culprit was not himself responsible, that is, in one
way or another not to have originated in the agent himself.
Indeed so far is ignorance from being universally accepted
XVIII] VOLUNTARINESS OF VIRTUE AND VICE 181
as a cause of involuntariness, that men are often punished
for the ignorance itself as being voluntary. Witness the
double penalties for drunkards, to which we have already
alluded, punishment for ignorance of obvious points of law,
and in common life for carelessness generally. A man
has it in his own power not to get drunk, so that the
ignorance which ensues must be ascribed to himself; and
the same may be said of wilful negligence.
THEOPHRASTUs. But may it not be urged that there are
some men so incurably careless or vicious that they really
cannot help themselves?
ARISTOTLE. Granted that there are, I should like to
know how the man got into such a state before we acquit
him of blame, and so imply that his actions are not
voluntary. Bad habits are not born with a man. They are
a sort of second nature, which he superinduces upon him-
self by his acts. But, even if they were born with him, it
would not prove that he was an involuntary agent, but
simply that he was a bad man who was following the bent
of his own nature.
THEOPHRASTUS. That would make all acts whatever
voluntary.
ARISTOTLE. Need I remind you that that is precisely the
position for which I have been all along contending? But
if the acts prompted by the original nature are voluntary,
how much more are those which proceed from this second
nature, with which a man invests himself? How is it that
a man contracts a habit of injustice except by voluntarily
doing wrong to his neighbours? Or a habit of intemper-
ance, except by voluntarily spending his time in drinking-
bouts, and so on? Even then, when a habit has got the
upper hand of a man, his acts must still be considered
voluntary, since it was in his own power originally to avoid
the formation of the habit which now enchains him.
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THEOPHRASTUs. But perhaps the man does not know
that his acts will thus turn into habits.
ARISTOTLE. Then he must be a downright dolt or idiot.
All men understand the force of habit where it touches
their interest. Why is the man who is in training for a race
always running, or the man who is in training for a wrestling
match always practising his muscles? It is because they
know that repeated acts lead to the formation of habits or
settled states, which will enable them to do the thing that
they require.
THEOPHRASTUs. All the Platonists maintain that no one
wishes to be unjust, that if you put it to any one whether he
wished to be just or unjust, he would say that he wished to
be just, and the same in the case of courage and cowardice,
and virtue and vice generally. But if this be so, we must
allow that vice is involuntary.
ARISTOTLE. If a man does not wish to be unjust or
intemperate, it is a very odd thing to find him deliberately
adopting the recognised means of becoming so. I should
say that his acts are a better index of his wishes than his
words.
THEOPHRASTUs. Then, if a man wishes to be unjust, he
ought to be able to wish himself back into justice. But if
he cannot get out of a vicious habit, how can you say that
it is voluntary?
ARISTOTLE. Because he got into it of his own accord.
There are many things which it is easier to get into than to
get out of, for instance, illness. A man may voluntarily do
the things that will make him ill-he may live recklessly
and disobey the doctors; in that case he voluntarily brings
an illness upon himself: but he cannot be well again from
mere wishing, any more than a man can wish back a stone
when he has once voluntarily thrown it from his hand. The
stone will take its inevitable course, and so will the illness :
XVIII] VOLUNTARINESS OF VIRTUE AND VICE 183
but the man voluntarily brought the illness upon himself,
just as it rested with himself to pick up the stone and throw
it. In the same way it was originally in the power of the
unjust and intemperate man not to become so, and so they
are what they are voluntarily: but when they have become
so, it is no longer in their power not to be so.
I remember that Plato was quite annoyed with me when
I suggested at his lecture that a man might be unjust involun-
tarily, and yet commit injustice voluntarily. He complained
that I was corrupting his doctrine, which he restated in very
strong language—'that all bad men in all respects are bad
against their will.' So convinced was he of the truth of his
own position, that he could only ascribe my holding a con-
trary view to a love of argument, or an ambition of novelty.
And yet now I am inclined to think that I did not then
go far enough, and that the concession that men are unjust
involuntarily was due to reverence for my master. For the
act implies the state, and what the act is, the state must be.
NICOMACHUS. I know that my question is rather off the
point at present, father. But is it not a disheartening view
of things to say that a man has power to become unjust, but
no power to become just again ?
ARISTOTLE. I did not say so, my son, and I do not know
that I think so. What I said was that 'when they have
become so, it is no longer in their power not to be so.' The
sick man cannot be well by wishing it, nor the unjust man
be just but the sick man may become well, if he submits
to the process of cure, and the unjust man may become just,
if he chooses to unweave the web of habit in which he has
enmeshed himself, and construct for himself a contrary web
-always provided that it is not too late.
NICOMACHUS. That is just it, father. I cannot bear to
think of its ever being too late.
ARISTOTLE. Well, my son, let us believe that while there
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is life there is hope. But I see that Theophrastus is rally-
ing for another encounter: so we must prepare to receive
his charge.
THEOPHRASTUs. You do not blame a man for being
physically ugly: why then should you blame him for being
morally ugly?
If
ARISTOTLE. That depends upon whether you consider
his ugliness to be his own fault or nature's. If nature
gives a man a crooked back, you do not blame him for it :
but if he has contracted a stoop by neglect of exercise, you
do. Even if your blame will not help to straighten his
shoulders, it may prevent others from becoming like him.
The same thing holds true of illness and mutilation.
a man is blind from birth, or goes blind in consequence of
some unavoidable malady or accident, it is a case for pity,
not for blame: but if it were known that he had drunk
himself blind, everybody would blame him. In fact the
example of the body, to which you have appealed, tells
entirely in my favour. Bodily vices that are in our own
power are blamed, and those that are not in our own power
are not blamed. Therefore we may argue from the fact of
mental vices being blamed, that they must be in our own
power.
NICOMACHUS. I thought you said, father, that we could
not simply convert a universal affirmative proposition?
ARISTOTLE. Well, my son, I am glad that you remember
so much of the Course on Dialectic. But what of it?
NICOMACHUS. Why you seem to me now to be arguing
thus-
All vices that are in our own power are blamed.
.. All vices that are blamed are in our own power.
ARISTOTLE. Not so, my son. You have left out some of
the data. My exact words were these. 'Bodily vices that
are in our own power are blamed, and those that are not in
XV II] VOLUNTARINESS OF VIRTUE AND VICE 185
our own power are not blamed.' We will express these
two propositions in symbols thus-
All A is B
and All not-A is not-B.
These two propositions together necessitate the conclusion
'All B is A,' since they indicate that A and B exactly
coincide in extension. All B is A' means for us, at present,
'All bodily vices that are blamed are in our own power,'
which I used as an example to prove the same thing of
mental vices.
NICOMACHUS. I knew I must be wrong, father. But
I thought Theophrastus might like time to collect his
thoughts.
THEOPHRASTUs. This is the last thing I have to say. If
there's nothing in it, I must throw up the case. I suppose
you will admit that a man does not make himself. Now
every man has a certain bent of character, which gives him
a certain idea of the aim of life, and this idea of the aim or
end must necessarily determine all his actions. But as he
does not give himself the idea of the end, the actions
which spring from it cannot be considered to originate in
the man.
ARISTOTLE. Now you are breaking into far deeper ground,
Theophrastus. I do not think I will follow you into the
quagmire into which you invite me, but will keep safely on
the edge of it. Hitherto I have been content to identify
the man with his own nature, but your argument suggests
disturbing possibilities of drawing a distinction between the
two, and attempting to determine how much of a man's
conduct is due to what we commonly regard as the nature
of the man, and how much to some special and mysterious
power of origination within the soul. I do not know where
such speculations would lead us, or whether it would be
worth while pursuing them.
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THEOPHRASTUS. I am glad you find my suggestion so
profound: but I must frankly confess that you seem to
detect a greater depth of meaning in it than I am aware
of myself. I only want you to combat the position that, if
the end is fixed for him, a man's acts cannot be called
voluntary.
ARISTOTLE. Your words brought back to my mind
glimpses that I have sometimes had of a difficulty in the
background. So I will answer you cautiously, but in a way
sufficient for the position which I am concerned to defend,
namely, that vice is as voluntary as virtue. Let us there-
fore see what would be the effect of accepting or of reject-
ing your suggestion.
First, let us suppose that we accept it.
A man's idea of good is fixed for him by nature or in
what way soever. Very well, in that case a man's evil acts
cannot be ascribed to himself in any sense that would call
for blame. His low or distorted idea of good is his misfor-
tune, not his fault. But neither can the good man's acts
be ascribed to himself in any sense that would call for
praise. His high and true conception of good is a gift
to him from a bountiful nature. Both alike follow out in
their actions the end that is set before them, expecting
thereby to obtain for themselves the highest good. But it
is as though the one were gifted by nature with a keen and
penetrating sight so as to have a clear view of the distant
goal, whereas the other were purblind from birth and mistook
some wholly different object for it. The first would be 'good-
natured' in the proper sense of the term, that is to say, he
would be favoured by nature, being endowed from birth
with a precious and incommunicable power to detect the
true end of life. But what voluntariness would there be
about the actions of either one or the other?
THEOPHRASTUS. Might it not be maintained that though
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the end was fixed, yet the good man was free to choose
among the means, and that in that sense virtue was
voluntary?
ARISTOTLE. It might. But such a contention will not
affect the point at issue, because the same free agency in
action is open equally to the bad man.
Now let us turn to the other side of the question, and
suppose that we reject your suggestion.
A man may be himself a co-operating cause with nature
and education in determining his own idea of good. For
a man undoubtedly has power over his acts. But his acts
go to form habits, his habits are part of his character, and
his character determines his idea of good. This I believe
myself to be a truer statement of the case than the other.
But the only point which concerns us at present is that it
makes vice as voluntary as virtue.
This indeed is a conclusion from which I see no escape.
For if it be true that the end is fixed for a man independently
of himself, then the only freedom that there can be about
virtue lies in the free choice of means to a predetermined
end, but this choice of means belongs equally to the vicious
man. On the other hand, if it be false to say that the end
is entirely fixed for the man, and not to some extent by him,
in this case also whatever degree of freedom there may be
about virtue, there will be precisely the same about vice.
So that, turn the matter which way we will, virtue and vice
are exactly on a par as regards voluntariness.
Our doctrine then is that virtue and vice are alike
voluntary, because they are both habits or states, which are
formed by a repetition of certain acts, and the acts which
lead to their formation are voluntary. But we may draw
a distinction between the voluntariness of acts and the
voluntariness of states. The first is primary and direct,
the second indirect and derivative. We are masters of our
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acts from beginning to end, if we are acquainted with the
particular circumstances under which they are done: but
we are masters only of the beginning of our states, in the
end they may get beyond our control. Acts are outward
and visible, and we can know where we are with respect to
them; states are inward and spiritual, we cannot watch their
growth or calculate their power; they creep upon us like
a disease, till at last they manifest themselves irresistibly in
action, whether for weal or woe. It is only because the
original direction of them lay with us that they are to be
called voluntary.
LECTURE XIX
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 6, 7]
THE MORAL VIRTUES IN DETAIL:
COURAGE-ITS
SPHERE AND DEFINITION
ABOUT moral virtue in general we have said already all
that we require to say. We have shown its genus to be
a state of the mind, its proximate genus to be a state of the
purpose or will, its differentia to be that it is a mean; we have
shown besides that this mean is determined by reason; also
that virtue, being a state or habit, is engendered by a repetition
of certain acts and tends to the performance of the same
for their own sakes, not with a view to any extrinsic con-
sequences; lastly, we have shown, or perhaps I should rather
say 'assumed,' that virtue depends upon ourselves and is
voluntary.
I propose therefore now to devote several lectures to an
examination of the moral virtues in detail, following the
lines already laid down in our scheme. We shall dwell
upon the nature of each, and shall show the precise sphere
with which it deals, and the way in which it deals with it.
As to the number of the moral virtues, that of course makes
itself apparent from the list: but it is not a point on which
I wish to dogmatize. Under different social circumstances
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different mental states may become prominent as virtues,
still under the direction of the same reason.
First, then, let us speak about courage.
Its sphere, as we have already said, is the feelings of fear
and confidence. The virtue consists in having these feelings
under due control by reason. Courage then is a mean with
respect to feelings of fear and confidence. That may do as
But the sphere of courage,
a rough definition to start on.
in any sense of that virtue in which we are concerned with
it, is far from being co-extensive with fear and confidence.
Let us endeavour then to ascertain the exact sphere of the
special virtue of courage.
All evil things are the objects of fear, for instance, ill-fame,
poverty, disease, friendlessness, death: so that fear is defined
as 'an anticipation of evil.' But, to make courage coincident
with fear would be manifestly to assign to it too wide a field;
for there are some things which it is right and proper to
fear, for instance, ill-fame. The man who fears this is
a right-feeling and modest man; the man who does not
fear it is a shameless fellow, whom it would be a violent
metaphor to call 'brave,' simply because he and the brave
man agree in the absence of fear.
Poverty and disease differ from ill-fame, in that fear is
not in place with regard to them: for perhaps we ought not
to fear anything but what proceeds from vice or is in some
way due to ourselves. Nevertheless it is only by a metaphor
that the man who is free from fear with regard to these
things is called brave. The nerve which a man displays in
risking a large sum of money with a view to a future return
may be called courage in a certain sense, but it is not the
exact quality we are now concerned to define. Nor yet, if
a man bears up with a stout heart against the loss of wealth,
is he to be called brave in the literal meaning of the term.
Generally then, there are certain kinds of fear that do not
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COURAGE
imply cowardice, and certain kinds of confidence that do
not entitle a man to be called courageous. No man is
a coward for fearing insult to his wife or children, or for
dreading the evil eye, and on the other hand the man who
does not mind being flogged displays bravado rather than
bravery. The question then arises-'What sort of fear does
the virtue of courage regulate?' And to this we reply 'The
fear of death.' Death is the thing that inspires most fear,
as being the end of all things, and it is held that there is
nothing further for the dead man either of good or evil.
But not even the fear of death in every shape is the proper
sphere of courage-not, for instance, at sea or on the bed
of sickness. The courageous man, it is true, will be free
from fear at sea, though in a different way from the sailors,
whose freedom from fear is grounded on experience and
hope, but the positive virtue of courage cannot be called
out either there or on the sick bed, as there is no opportunity
for the display of prowess, and no particular glory in being
drowned or succumbing to an illness.
It is the battle-field then mainly that is the true sphere of
the virtue of courage, so that in the strict sense of the term
he will be called brave who is fearless with regard to a noble
death and mortal dangers that are close at hand.
THEOPHRASTUs. I don't know why you should deny
courage to the sailor, who is undismayed amid the storm.
ARISTOTLE. Because his apparent courage is merely the
result of experience. We will speak of that later.
THEOPHRASTUs. But I suppose you might have two sailors
equally experienced, one of whom showed himself courageous
and the other not.
ARISTOTLE. But what would he have to show himself
courageous against? There's no glory in fighting the waves.
You're fortunate if you escape them—that's all.
THEOPHRASTUS. What nobler death could you have than
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that of a captain who perished in the gallant attempt to save
his passengers and crew?
Aristotle. Well, such a death as that would come under
our definition. For wherever death with honour is possible,
there also is courage possible.
You must bear in mind that it is not courage as a mere
quality, but courage as a good quality, or virtue, which
we have undertaken to define. It is the motive which
determines the character of an act.
Take away the noble
motive, and though an act may display fearlessness or con-
fidence, it cannot be called courageous, nor can the habit
from which the act proceeds be dignified with the title of
a virtue, however useful it may be to the individual who
possesses it. The fearlessness then of the sailor does not
deserve to be called courage, unless it be prompted by some
higher motive than the desire for self-preservation, which is
common to all animals.
EUDEMUS. In defining the brave man why do you say
dangers that are close at hand'?
ARISTOTLE. Because distant dangers do not affect the
imagination or cause fear. A man may be courageous
enough with regard to a danger that is ten years off, and
yet be ready to die with fear when he is brought face to
face with it. Death looms in the distance for us all, and
yet the most cowardly of us goes about quite cheerfully,
and snaps his fingers in the face of the bugbear-until he
thinks that it is near. The same dulness of imagination
perhaps accounts for the fact that a man who proves him-
self chary enough of his life on the field of battle may be
a spendthrift, and fling away the means of living with a good
heart.
EUDEMUS. You said that fear might be defined as an
'anticipation of evil,' just as I have heard you say on other
occasions that hope might be defined as an 'anticipation
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of good.' Now there are other evils besides bodily evils.
Suppose then that a man foresaw that he was about to
suffer the pangs of envy or jealousy or the discomfort and
humiliation of shame, would you say that 'fear' would be
the right term to describe his state of mind?
ARISTOTLE. His state of mind would come under the
definition of fear which I gave you, and which is not my
own, but inherited from Plato. I am inclined, however,
to agree with you in thinking that it might be more strictly
correct to confine fear to the anticipation of bodily evil in
the shape of death or pain. In this strict sense the term
'fear' might be defined as 'a pain or disturbance arising
from the presence in the imagination of the idea of im-
pending evil destructive to life or involving physical pain.'
EUDEMUS. This restriction of meaning would have the
advantage of rendering the sphere of courage co-extensive
with that of fear, and so avoiding the necessity of all the
exclusions which you made.
THEOPHRASTUs. For my part I am more inclined to ask
why the exclusions should have been made. Socrates, as
we know, would embrace under the conception of courage
the very things which you have omitted, namely, dangers at
sea and in sickness and the evils of poverty, and other things
besides, such as facing political opposition: he would even
extend the name 'brave' to the man who conquers his
desires and resists the attractions of pleasure.
ARISTOTLE. On the same principle you might give the
name 'brave' to the man whom we call 'gentle.' For does
he not resist and overcome the impulse to wrath? But there
is nothing to be gained by removing the landmarks of
thought. So hazy a notion as this not unnaturally evapo-
rates, as we find it does with Socrates, into a confusion of
courage with virtue in general. This fault at all events I am
determined to avoid, even if I fall into the opposite one of
O
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unduly restricting the field. Instead of endeavouring to grasp
in a single conception all the heterogeneous uses to which
the term courage can by any analogy be applied, I have
fixed upon the original physical sense and endeavoured to
idealize that. If you want a proof of the importance attached
to physical courage, look at the practice of states. Is it not
for the successful soldier that the highest honours are reserved
both in free commonwealths and at the courts of princes?
And not without reason: since this virtue is necessary for
the very existence of a state.
EUDEMUS. You began by saying 'All evil things are the
objects of fear.' May I ask-To whom are they objects of
fear to the coward or to the brave man? If the brave
man only endures things that are fearful to the coward,
there does not seem to be anything very sublime about his
virtue, whereas, if the things he endures are fearful to
himself, courage would seem to make a man full of fear
instead of free from it.
ARISTOTLE. Your question sounds worthy of Zeno the
Eleatic: but I suspect you are aware yourself that there
is an easier way out of your dilemma than out of his.
The fearful, like the pleasant and the good, may be either
relative or absolute. By the absolutely fearful we mean
what is fearful to human nature, and so would have terrors
to every man of sense. But things may be fearful relatively
to the coward which are not fearful at all in themselves, or
only slightly so. It is not so much in enduring things that
are fearful to the coward that the brave man shows his
bravery as in enduring things that are fearful to every one.
EUDEMUS. When you say 'every one,' do you include
himself?
ARISTOTLE. Certainly, else where would the courage
come in, if the things had no terrors for him? A stone
would on that showing be the most courageous of beings,
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for it is never troubled with fear at all. We do not however
call a stone 'fearless,' because that term implies that a thing
is capable of fear. We are talking, you must remember, of
a brave man. He is undismayed as a man should be, not
as some being differently constituted, who does not know
what fear is. An utter callousness to pain is no ideal of
ours any more than an utter insensibility to pleasure: now
fear, as we have said, is an anticipation of pain. Therefore,
as man is liable to pain, the brave man as well as others
will be liable to fear. His bravery consists in his over-
coming fear at the call of right. But there are some
occasions on which he cannot even be expected to over-
come fear, some dangers so appalling that the very bravest
will quail before them, such as thunder-bolts, earthquakes
and inundations of the sea.
EUDEMUS. You said that the brave man will fear what is
fearful to every one. But will the things he fears be as
fearful to him as they are to every one else?
ARISTOTLE. They will not be so fearful to him as they
are to the coward. For the coward goes wrong in over-
estimating the fearfulness of things that are really fearful
and mistaking for such things that are not so. But on the
other hand, they will be more fearful to him than they are
to the foolhardy or rash man, who goes wrong owing to
a misplaced and mistimed confidence. Between these two
the brave man steers the middle course. We may say that
he is the man who endures and fears what he ought, and
from the right motive and in the right way and at the right
time, and likewise feels confidence: for the brave man both
feels and acts duly and as reason directs.
THEOPHRASTUS. Of these various conditions which do
you consider to be the most essential to an act of courage ?
ARISTOTLE. The motive, as I have told you before, is
the most essential to courage as a virtue. Now the end
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But
proposed by any act must be identical with the end or aim
of the state of mind from which that act proceeds.
the brave man regards his courage as morally right. Of
this nature therefore must be the end: for everything
derives its character from its end. Therefore any brave
act, to be truly such, must be done for the sake of right.
NICOMACHUS. That sounds like a syllogism, father; only
it seems rather involved.
ARISTOTLE. It is a syllogism and more. For the minor
premiss is supported by a reason, which implies a preceding
syllogism. I will condense the statement, so that you may
the more easily detect its form.
The end of the state is the end of the act.
Right conduct is the end of the state (for what
characterizes anything is its end).
.. Right conduct is the end of the act.
The pro-syllogism, which supports the minor premiss,
would, if drawn out in full, run thus—
What characterizes anything is its end.
Right conduct characterizes the state of courage.
.. Right conduct is the end of the state.
But, to come back to our subject—
Of those who are in excess he who is so from an absence
of fear is without a name. We have found already that
there are many mental phenomena which we have to
recognise, for which common language has provided no
name. But you may set such a person down as a sort of
madman or insensate, if he were afraid of nothing, not even
of an earthquake. Some barbarians seem to pride themselves
on this mad kind of insensibility to fear. The Celts will
not budge from a tumbling wall, and Ephorus tells us that,
when the tide sweeps into their houses, they refuse to
retreat, but take arms and fight against it; Herodotus also
mentions how the Psylli perished in an attack upon the
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Sirocco.
For the other form of excess, which is due to
over-confidence in danger, we have a name. It is rashness,
and the man who exhibits it is called 'rash.'
EUDEMUS. Don't you remember telling Theophrastus
that you thought we had better drop this distinction between
the two forms of excess ?
ARISTOTLE. So I did. Verily habit is as much a cause
of human action as any impulse, rational or otherwise.
THEOPHRASTUs. It hasn't been my lot to observe many
people who suffered from over-confidence in danger, though
I've seen many who were over-confident out of it. Your
'rash' man seems to me generally to be a bit of a braggart
and a pretender to bravery. He blusters a great deal
beforehand, but when it comes to facing the danger, he is
apt to display the white feather, whereas the truly brave
man is prompt in action but quiet before.
ARISTOTLE. Your remark is quite true as an observation
on human nature. The bully is very often a coward in
disguise. But still there is such a thing as facing dangers
which neither right nor reason calls upon us to face; and
this state of mind we may ascribe to an overstock of
confidence.
The coward, on the other hand, is understocked with this
feeling and overstocked with its opposite, fear. He fears
what he ought not, and in a way he ought not, and so on.
But though he suffers from the two faults of lack of con-
fidence and undue preponderance of fear, it is the latter
that chiefly betrays him.
The coward, you see, is a despondent sort of person, in
whom the faculty of hope is feeble. Whereas the courageous
man, on the contrary, is of a sanguine disposition, and buoyed
up by hope.
All three characters then have to do with the same things,
namely, fear and confidence, but they are in different states
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with regard to them. The rash man and the coward are
both in excess and defect, the one having too much
confidence and too little fear, the other too much fear
and too little confidence, while the brave man hits the
happy mean with regard to both feelings.
We may therefore say that courage is a mean state with
regard to things that inspire fear or confidence, in matters
involving danger to life and limb. But we must always
bear in mind that the motive must be a noble one, and that,
to entitle courage to be considered praiseworthy, and there-
fore virtuous, the brave man must choose to face danger
because it is right to do so, or wrong not to do so.
This definition disposes of a great many spurious forms
of courage; and the first that it is fatal to is the courage
that is claimed by some people for the suicide.
'He must
be brave,' they say, 'to face death in this way. I should
not have the courage to cut my own throat.' But the
question is what is his motive? Generally, you will find.
that it is to escape poverty or the pangs of blighted love-
for money or woman are at the bottom of most cases of
suicide. But at all events it is to escape something which
the suicide regards as more painful than death; so that
suicide is a form of cowardice, not of courage. Manliness
is shown in enduring evils, but effeminacy in flying from
them. What does Agathon say on this subject?
'For cowards, when they cannot conquer pain,
Rush to the arms of death.'
EUDEMUS. May not the pain be so excessive that no one
could be expected to endure it, just as the poets tell that
Chiron prayed to the Gods to be relieved of his immortality
owing to the pangs of his wound?
ARISTOTLE. We are discussing statecraft, not mythology.
Suicide is always an injustice to the state. The most that
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such an act can expect is pardon, not praise. It can never
be regarded as courage. To choose a lesser pain instead
of a greater is done on the same principle as choosing
pleasure. Death becomes pleasant to the suicide by com-
parison with greater pains. If death were pleasant in itself,
we should have men dropping into it from mere lack of self-
control, just as now they choose with their eyes open the
pleasant paths that lead to it. But you do not call them
brave on that account.
LECTURE XX
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 8, 9]
SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE: COURAGE
CHIEFLY CONCERNED WITH PAIN
BESIDES the seeming courage of suicide, which we have
found to be a form of cowardice, there are five other spurious
kinds of courage, which fail to satisfy our definition, but
which may all of them have a certain value in inducing men
to obey orders under circumstances of danger. We will
enumerate them first, and then proceed to dwell upon them
in detail.
(1) Civil courage.
(2) The courage of experience.
(3) The courage of passion.
(4) The courage of hope.
(5) The courage of ignorance.
(1) By 'civil courage' I mean the feeling which prompts
citizens to endure dangers out of respect for public opinion.
This courage may be said to be due to law, whether of the
written or of the unwritten kind. Most states, from the
instinct of self-preservation, visit cowardice with penalties
and disgrace, and confer rewards and honour upon valour.
Wherever this code is most strictly enforced by public
opinion, you will find the citizens bravest. We have
instances of this type of character in Homer's heroes.
SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE
201
'Hector,' he says, 'was seized with shame,' which prevented
his retreating, when Achilles advanced into the fray; and
Hector is represented as thinking to himself 'Polydamas
will be the first to heap reproach upon me,' Polydamas
standing in his mind for public opinion. Similarly Diomede
is deterred from flight by the thought-
'For Hector will some day say, as he harangues among the Trojans,
Tydides scared by me.'
The thought of his enemies jeering at him is intolerable to
the hero who pants for honour.
We have mentioned this form of courage first, because it
approaches most nearly to the true in the dignity of its
motive. It is due to shame and a love of honour, with its
obverse the fear of disgrace. These motives are generally,
though not invariably, good. They serve in the main to
keep one up to the common and accepted standard of
morality, though they may deter one from going beyond it.
Shame, as we have seen, is not a virtue, though it is an
approach to being a virtue. The love of honour we have
recognised as being, within due limits, one of the moral
virtues.
But true courage, like all real virtue, springs from a sense
of right. It is founded, not on a love for the passing
opinions of men, but for that moral beauty which is part
of the eternal order of the universe. The chief point in
which civil courage falls short of true courage is this. It
will nerve a man to face dangers so long as he is before the
eyes of the world, but no longer, whereas the truly courageous
man will act in the same way whether any one is there to see
him or not.
Along with civil courage we may mention a lower form
which proceeds, not from fear of disgrace, but from fear of
pain. Men may be more afraid of their commanders than
•
202
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1
they are of the enemy, and the same fear may be continued
from habit even when the actual cause is removed. You
remember how Hector threatens his men-
'If
any cowering far from fight I find,
I warrant he shall not escape the dogs.'
THEOPHRASTUS. I remember words to that effect from
Hector: but the passage you give seems rather to represent
the words of Agamemnon in the second Iliad.
Aristotle. Well, Hector or Agamemnon, what does it
matter to the illustration? We have an extreme form of
the same compulsory courage in the Persian soldiers who
are lashed into battle by their officers, and a milder form
in the case of drawing up troops in positions from which
they cannot escape. But plainly there is no virtue in
a courage which is due only to compulsion.
THEOPHRASTUS. I don't think the Homeric heroes
would be obliged to you for ranking them along with the
Persian soldiers.
ARISTOTLE. Perhaps I do owe them an apology. It
was convenience of classification that led me into doing
this despite to them. The tie of connexion between the
two forms of courage is that they are both due to com-
pulsion but the moral compulsion from which the former
proceeds is a very much higher thing than the motive.
which dictates the latter.
NICOMACHUS. Might we not say, father, that the latter
is due to physical compulsion?
ARISTOTLE. Not if we are to be consistent with the
meaning which we formerly assigned to that term: but in
a loose sense we can.
People
(2) Next, we have the courage of experience.
who understand all about a thing may present an appear-
ance of great courage to those who are inexperienced on
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SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE
the same subject, without their being really braver men.
Thus the sailor appears brave to the landsman, and the
professional soldier to the civilian. There are a great
many empty terrors in war which experience enables one
to estimate at their true value. Then again the professional
soldier, owing to his experience, is best able to inflict
without receiving damage; he has skill in the use of
weapons, and is provided with such weapons as are best
for purposes both of offence and defence. So when pro-
fessional soldiers are pitted against men who have no such
advantages, it is almost like a fight between armed men and
unarmed, or between athletes and amateurs. All this
gives the professional soldier a confidence which makes
him appear brave. But his courage, in so far as derived
from this source, is only apparent. In the arena also it is
not the bravest men who are the best fighters, but those
who are strongest and have their bodies in the best
condition.
This kind of courage, not being grounded on a sense of
right, will not bear the strain of real danger. The very
same experience which teaches men contempt for a sham
danger teaches them respect for a real one. And so when
an army finds itself outnumbered or outmanœuvred, or in
some way at a serious disadvantage, the professional
soldiers are often the first to fly, whereas the citizen-troops
die at their post. The latter think death better than dis-
honour; the former do not, and were only induced to face the
danger from the first under the idea that they were superior.
When this illusion is dispelled they take to their heels,
which is very unlike the conduct of the brave man.
so long ago, during the Sacred War, we had an instance of
what I am saying. The citizens of Coroneia, being hard
pressed by Onomarchus the Phocian, who was in possession
of their citadel, shut the gates on themselves so that they
Not
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could not desert their country if they would, and died to
a man on the level ground round the temple of Hermes,
whereas their professional allies fled from the battle at an
early stage, when they found that Chiron, one of the
Boeotarchs, was dead.
To have the confidence then which arises from ex-
perience is no proof of the possession of true courage. If
a man knows that a thing will not hurt him, small credit to
him for not being afraid of it. It is when he thinks that it
will, or may hurt him, and still confronts it, that he shows
himself to be brave. Courage is much more an affair of
the emotions than of the intellect.
EUDEMUS. I suppose it was this courage of experience,
or soldier's courage, which Socrates had in view when he
declared courage to be a science. But don't you think he
was wrong in speaking as though courage consisted in
a knowledge of dangers? Ought he not rather to have said
that it consisted in a knowledge of the remedies against
danger? It is not because the sailor knows the danger
that he is ready to run up a mast in a storm, but because
he knows how to guard against the danger.
ARISTOTLE. I agree with what you said last, that the
thing which gives men confidence is the knowledge how to
avoid the danger. The knowledge of the danger itself has
exactly the reverse effect. Ignorance in that case is a better
source of courage than experience.
EUDEMUS. I can see that experience cannot be identified
with courage merely because it gives confidence. For, if
so, strength would have to be called courage, and wealth
too, which is a great source of confidence. The poor man,
as Theognis has it, is bound hand and foot by his poverty.
NICOMACHUS. What was it exactly, father, that Socrates
said about courage?
ARISTOTLE. He said a good deal, my son.
But you may
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SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE
take this statement as being perhaps on the whole the best
expression of his view-that 'courage is the knowledge of
what ought to inspire fear or confidence both in war and in
all other matters.'
THEOPHRASTUS. Do you think that Socrates really meant
by this what Eudemus understands him to mean?
ARISTOTLE. Socrates' whole point of view in dealing
with virtue is so different from my own that it is difficult
for me to judge fairly of his statements. He looks at
virtue from the side of the reason and seems to leave out
of account the part played by the emotions and the will,
on which I am always anxious to insist. I can see however
that the statement that courage is a science is in perfect
accordance with the general doctrine of Socrates. For if
virtue generally be knowledge and vice ignorance, then any
particular virtue will be some particular branch of know-
ledge. Now courage, according to Socrates, is the knowledge.
of what is really dreadful and what is not. Death is not
really dreadful to a good man when it is right for him to
meet it. For, as he said before his judges, 'No evil can
happen to a good man either in life or in death.'
THEOPHRASTUS. That sounds very comforting doctrine,
but I don't see that it really is. The conviction is only
arrived at by refusing to call anything evil but what springs.
from vice. If a man is really good, he is ex hypothesi
secure against that. But a good man may get knocked on
the head by a burglar or be tortured by a tyrant in this
life, and I suppose it is conceivable that analogous mishaps.
may be in store for him in another.
ARISTOTLE. Quite so: you have only to attain the con-
viction that nothing is really worth caring about but wisdom
and virtue, and then you will be ready to meet all chances
with serenity. But this conviction perhaps does not come
so easily to every one as to Socrates.
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(3) Let us come on now to the third spurious form of
courage, which we called the courage of passion. You may
take 'passion' now either in the restricted sense, in which
it is equivalent to spirit, or in the wide sense in which it is
applied to feeling in general. There is hardly any feeling
which may not be strong enough to lead men to brave
danger and even death.
Love finds its way to its end in spite of obstacles. Fill
the young man's soul with this passion, and Leander swims
the Hellespont, another enamoured youth slays the tyrant
at Metapontium, while Orpheus braves death and hell for
his Eurydice. Nor need the love be a noble one to inspire
this boldness. How many daring acts do adulterers commit
simply to gratify their lust! The lower animals even are as
susceptible of this sort of courage as men. Even the timid
stag becomes dangerous in the rutting season.
Or again, take the appetite of hunger. Of how much
heroism has it been the source! You have heard of the
reply of Clearchus to Artaxerxes-that 'no one would dare
to treat with the Greeks about peace until they had had
their breakfast.' If this be a source of courage the ass
must be deemed courageous; for, when he is hungry,
he will not desist from his grazing however much you
beat him.
But it is chiefly the passion of anger that blinds men to
a sense of danger, and makes them rush, like a wounded
wild beast, upon the foe. Anger proceeds from spirit, and,
because the brave are full of spirit, people are apt to
confound this angry recklessness with true courage. Homer
testifies to the way in which spirit incites men to meet
dangers he imparted might,' he says, 'to his spirit'; and
'he aroused their might and spirit'; and 'sharp might
through his nostrils'; and 'his blood boiled.'
All such ex-
pressions seem to indicate the rousing and outbreak of spirit.
xx] SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE
207
THEOPHRASTUs. I must give you credit for the other
quotations, though I think you would find that the third.
refers to the delight of Odysseus on revealing himself to
his aged father, not to anger; but the fourth, I am sure,
does not occur in Homer from beginning to end.
ARISTOTLE. Well, spirit is the source of love as well as
of hate, so that a burst of affection is as much the outcome
of it as a fit of wrath. As for your objection against my
fourth quotation, all I can say is that, if the words do not
occur in Homer, they might have done so. They would be
no mere metaphor, but a literal statement of fact, since
passion, as I explained to you in the course on Physics, is
a boiling up of blood about the heart.
THEOPHRASTUs. That was the very thing which made
me so confident in my assertion that the words do not
occur in Homer. I could not fail to have been struck by
so remarkable a confirmation, or rather anticipation, of
your doctrine.
ARISTOTLE. The courage of anger, being common to
man with the brutes, cannot be true courage, since no brute
is capable of virtue. The brutes are goaded into wrath by
pain. If they are wounded, or afraid of being so, they will
rush with blind rage to the attack, but if they are safe in
some thicket, they seldom do so. As a rule, if you let
them alone, they let you alone-unless indeed they are
hungry, and hunger is a form of pain. If men fight, like
brutes, merely because they feel the pain of anger and
desire the pleasure of revenge, we cannot dignify them with
the name of brave, but must simply call them pugnacious,
since their valour is not directed by reason.
As the last form of courage erred in making courage
purely an affair of the intellect, so this errs in taking
account only of the emotional element. All true virtue
has something in it, both of the head and of the heart,
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seeing that is a state of purpose. But of the two I should
say that this approaches more nearly to true courage than
does the apparent courage of experience. This at least
has the makings of true courage about it: it affords the
rough material which can be worked up into true courage,
if you supply purpose and the motive of right. Spirit is
the natural ally of reason, and in the truly brave man will
be perfectly under its bidding. Without a fair share of
spirit a man will lack the active side of courage however
much he may possess the passive. For it is quite possible
for a man to count death better than dishonour, and to
expose his life to every needful risk, and yet not be a good
fighter. Why? Simply because he has not the stomach
to kill his adversaries. In order to do this effectually and
with gusto he requires the co-operation of the brute instinct.
We may see the force of spirit in the case of children, in
whom reason is not yet developed. Some of them are
ready to fight like gamecocks, and never know when they
are beaten. Let the state cherish such: for they will prove
themselves hereafter valiant defenders of the fatherland, if
this spirit is directed by reason to right ends. Of the five
lower forms that we have mentioned the courage which
comes from spirit is the most spontaneous and natural.
Civil courage is indeed a more valuable quality, because it
is directed to a high, though not the highest end, but it is
based on convention and not on nature.
(4) The fourth spurious form of courage is what we have
called the courage of hope. It may come from a sanguine
disposition, which is a good thing, as far as it goes, or simply
from a series of past successes, which engender the expecta-
tion of success in the future. It has the element of confidence
about it, which is seen also in true courage. But the brave
man's confidence is based on the resolution to dare all for
the sake of right, whereas the confidence of the sanguine
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SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE
man is either irrational or grounded on a hasty induction.
If the event belies his expectation, it is apt to vanish, and
then the sanguine man beats a retreat.
THEOPHRASTUs. I suppose that his hopes then take
the form of expecting to run faster than the enemy.
ARISTOTLE. Very likely. But it is clear that so unstable
a thing as hope cannot be a source of true courage. If it
were, then wine would be a source of courage, for it
certainly supplies hope. It is its stability, as much as any-
thing, that distinguishes true courage from all spurious.
imitations. True courage is the settled habit of feeling
confidence and fear to precisely the right extent. The
surest test of this is a man's conduct under a sudden
danger. Even a man of a timid disposition may face
danger and death with dignity, if he has had time to
prepare himself for it beforehand, but to be fearless and
undisturbed amid sudden dangers can only come from
habit-or from the grace of nature.
(5) The courage of ignorance, which we mentioned last,
can have no claim to be true courage. It arises from a mere
mistake, and vanishes as soon as the mistake is discovered.
This was the courage that led the Argives to rush with such
alacrity upon the Lacedaemonians at the Long Walls of
Corinth. They did not know that there were Spartan hearts
beating behind the Sicyonian shields.
This form of courage resembles that of the sanguine man,
but is inferior to it. For the sanguine man exhibits some
amount of self-reliance, and endures the danger for a time,
whereas the courage which is based on mere ignorance has
no staying power at all. It is the opposite in a way of the
courage of experience. That arises from a knowledge that
there is no danger, this from an ignorance that there is any.
A child playing with a rattle-snake may be taken as the type
of this form of courage.
P
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To sum up, then, courage, to be worthy of the name,
must not proceed from a fear of disgrace, still less from
a fear of punishment, nor yet from a knowledge that the
danger is not so great as it appears, nor from appetite or
anger or any brute instinct, nor again from mere hope of
success, nor, lastly, from ignorance of the danger: but it
must spring from an impulse of the soul directed by reason
to the attainment of right. And further, to be courage in
the strict and literal meaning of the term, not in any
metaphorical or derived sense, what it leads one to face
must be physical pain and danger to life and limb, not
other evils, however intolerable, which do not tend directly
to the destruction of being.
NICOMACHUS. You began, father, by saying that the
sphere of courage was the feelings of fear and confidence,
but we have heard a good deal more about fear than about
confidence. I suppose it is not concerned equally with
both.
ARISTOTLE. That is so, my son. Courage is far more
concerned with quelling fear, and rendering a man cool and
self-possessed in danger, than with moderating confidence.
There is nothing so characteristic of this virtue as the
endurance of pain. This introduces an element of pain
into the virtue itself, which is the reason why it is so highly
praised. The harder a thing is, the more praise it deserves.
Now it is harder to endure pain than to abstain from
pleasure.
THEOPHRASTUs. On that principle I suppose we might
say that courage is a higher virtue than temperance?
ARISTOTLE. Harder certainly, and if harder, then rarer,
and therefore higher. But as there are so many spurious
forms of courage, I daresay you might find more people
who are called courageous than who are called temperate.
EUDEMUS. I have a difficulty in reconciling what you are
xx] SOME SPURIOUS FORMS OF COURAGE
211
saying now about the painfulness of courage with your
previous statement that the man who is pained at enduring
dangers is a coward, or at all events, not brave.
ARISTOTLE. The means are painful to the brave man,
because he is a man, but the end is always pleasant. The
joy of noble action leads the brave man cheerfully to face
what is painful to flesh and blood. A virtuous act, I maintain,
is always pleasant in itself, because what it is in itself must
be judged by its end: but sometimes it is only the end that
is pleasant, in other words, the only pleasure there is about
it is the pleasure of doing right. Let no man imagine that
virtue is a bed of roses. If he is looking for any reward of
virtue other than virtue itself, I am afraid he may be disap-
pointed. The reward of virtue is the beauty of the act. The
test of true virtue is whether this is reward enough. To
the good man it always is, the pleasure of right-doing being
of an incomparably finer kind than any grosser form of
satisfaction. But just because it is finer, it is less obvious,
and is apt to be obscured by its surroundings. In the same
way the boxer's aim, which is the crown and honours of
victory, is always pleasant, but the being knocked about is
disagreeable and painful, seeing that he is of flesh and blood,
and so is all the toil of training; the number of these
unpleasant accompaniments might lead some people to
think that the prize was not worth contending for.
THEOPHRASTUs. But the boxer generally lives to enjoy
his honours, whereas the brave man may die, and be in-
sensible to honour, or it may never even be accorded to
him, if there were no one to tell the tale of his heroism.
ARISTOTLE. I think you are forgetting that honour is not
the hero's motive, but the beauty of the act. Of that nothing
can deprive him.
THEOPHRASTUS. I am afraid I was for the moment. It
is a conception which it is hard to rise to.
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ARISTOTLE. And yet we must rise to it, if we wish to be
virtuous. It is a true saying that 'the beautiful is hard.'
The brave man, being necessarily a good man, is therefore
happy. He is the very man to whom life is best worth living,
and yet he is the man who will go and sacrifice it all, with
his eyes open, at the call of right.
NICOMACHUS. I suppose, father, that an army of really
brave men would be invincible?
ARISTOTLE. Invincible, but not necessarily victorious, as
they might not have technical skill. And then think what
a shocking waste of good material it would be to use them
for the everyday purposes of war! Men with far less valuable
lives can be found, who are ready to imperil them in the
profession of arms for a chance of small gain.
We must now quit the subject of courage. I hope that
the treatment I have given it may at least furnish you with
some rough idea of what it is.
LECTURE XXI
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, III. 10-12]
TEMPERANCE-ITS SPHERE AND DEFINITION:
TEMPERANCE COMPARED WITH COURAGE
ARISTOTLE. Having treated of courage, let us next deal
with temperance: for these seem to be the virtues of the
irrational parts of the soul.
NICOMACHUS. Forgive me, father, for interrupting you
at starting. But I gathered from what you said that all
the moral virtues, including even justice, were the per-
fections of the irrational part of the soul. Yet now you
speak as though courage and temperance were exclusively so.
ARISTOTLE. Moral virtue generally is the perfection of
the irrational part of the soul, whose praise is in obedience.
But by the irrational parts I meant, when I spoke, the two
impulses which we have in common with the lower animals.
It is the special function of courage and temperance to
bring spirit and appetite respectively under the yoke of
reason.
Now appetite always aims at pleasure. So pleasures of
some kind are the sphere of temperance. Roughly speaking,
then, we may say that temperance is a mean with regard to
pleasures. For, though it is concerned also with pains, it is
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so in a less degree and in quite a different way from that
in which it is concerned with pleasures. Whatever is
the sphere of temperance will also be the sphere of
intemperance.
Let us endeavour then to ascertain what pleasures are
the special sphere of this virtue.
Pleasure is a mental affection; and the mind, at least
under normal conditions, can only be reached through the
body. All pleasures then, of whatever kind, must affect
the mind through the body; and, if through the body,
then through one of the five known inlets of sense, namely,
sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. But there are some
pleasures in which the use of the body is a mere accident
and others in which it is essential. The former we call
mental and the latter bodily pleasures.
If I learn some theorem in geometry, it gives me pleasure.
The pleasure can only be conveyed to my mind through
symbols which appeal to sense. But the pleasure in no
way arises from the symbols, but from the truth into which
they are translated within my mind. This then may be
called a purely mental pleasure.
Again, if honour be done to me, I feel pleasure. The
honour must be conveyed through some form of words
which I hear, or, if they are written, see; or else it must
consist in some series of acts which I see or feel, or which
in some way affect my senses. If I am mistaken for a God,
and incense is burned to me, then the honour is conveyed
through the sense of smell; if I am invited out to dinner,
and given the tid-bits, then the honour is conveyed through
the sense of taste. Whether I like or dislike the smell of
incense in itself is quite beside the point: it is not in itself,
but as a sign of honour, that it gives me pleasure, if it does.
So. Again, whether I like the tid-bits or not is equally
beside the point it is not the glutton's pleasure that I feel,
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but the pleasure of honour, which happens in this case to
enter the soul through gluttony's door. The very same
acts might give me no pleasure at all, if they were not
interpreted within my mind to mean that honour was being
paid to me. The love of honour, then, like the love of
learning, may be regarded as a purely mental pleasure.
Now we may separate off the mental pleasures to begin
with, as not being the sphere either of temperance or
intemperance.
NICOMACHUS. You used to reprove me, father, for being
too fond of study. I am glad to find that I was not
intemperate on that account.
ARISTOTLE. It is foolish and wrong, my son, to pursue
even learning to the detriment of health, since the mind is
the necessary instrument of the body. But you are not
called intemperate on that account, except in a purely
metaphorical sense. Suppose I were to give out that
Xenocrates was intemperate, without any qualification of
the assertion, when I meant in my own mind only that he
studied too late at night, don't you think that he might
justly take an action against me for libel? We all know
his extraordinary control over his physical impulses. Of
course it is possible to be in the excess with regard to
mental as well as bodily pleasures. A man may be so
with regard to honour, and then he is condemned as
'ambitious'; he may be too fond of hearing and telling
stories, and may waste his days on trifles, and then he is
called a 'gossip'; he may grieve overmuch at the loss of
property or friends, and we may say then that he is in-
temperate in grief: but this is merely a metaphor-in none
of these cases is he called 'intemperate' in the strict sense
of the term.
We may, therefore, confine ourselves to the bodily
pleasures in the search for the sphere of temperance.
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These, as I have said, must affect the soul through one of
the five recognised inlets of sense. Let us draw a scheme,
to make plain our method of procedure.
Mental
Pleasure
Bodily
Sight Hearing Smell Taste Touch
THEOPHRASTUs. May I ask why you have arranged the
senses in this precise order?
ARISTOTLE. It would be enough to say 'for convenience':
but as you would not be happy without a principle, I will
give you one, if you will promise not to press it against me.
You may say that the senses are here arranged in order of
superiority.
THEOPHRASTUS. What is the criterion of superiority
among the senses?
ARISTOTLE. For the nonce, we will say the distance at
which they bring you into contact with the object. You
can see the heavenly bodies, but you cannot hear the music
of the spheres; you can hear a great deal further than you
can smell; and you can smell further than you can taste or
touch.
THEOPHRASTUs. But you can't taste any further off than
you can touch, or indeed as far.
ARISTOTLE. There you go. I felt sure you would do it.
THEOPHRASTUs. Pardon me, master.
ARISTOTLE. Now with the pleasures of sight as such,
and apart from their suggestions, temperance and in-
temperance have nothing to do. A man might take even
a fatuous pleasure in painting or statuary, so as to neglect
eating and drinking and the other offices of nature, in order
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to gaze upon some work of art, without his being thereby
called intemperate by any one who knew how to use words
in their strict meaning.
The same thing holds true of the pleasures of hearing.
A man may be unduly addicted to music, or he may
neglect his business, for the sake of listening to plays,
without being called intemperate.
EUDEMUS. I have been wondering why you should call
these bodily pleasures at all. You seem to set down the
pleasures derived from fine arts, such as painting, sculpture,
music, acting and even poetry, under the head of bodily
pleasures! Are they not as purely mental as the love of
learning or honour?
ARISTOTLE. Sight and hearing are the two intellectual
senses so that the pleasures derived from them have more
claim to be called mental than those of the three senses
which yet remain to be discussed. But there is this
important difference between a pleasure like music and
a pleasure like honour. The idea of honour might be
conveyed through one channel of sense as well as another,
whereas if a man were to be deprived of hearing, he would
be shut off for ever from the pleasure of music. Learning
again requires some system of general signs, but that
system may address itself to the ear, or to the eye, or even
to the sense of touch-for it is conceivable that general ideas
might be communicated through that: but the pleasure of
painting, consisting as it does in the representation of colour
and form on a flat surface, could not be conveyed through
any medium but the eye. That is why I referred the
pleasures of the fine arts to the head of bodily rather than
of mental pleasures: but I grant that they form an intellectual
class among bodily pleasures.
EUDEMUS. But poetry, at all events, can find access to the
mind through the eye as well as through the ear; and this
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would seem to exempt it from all suspicion of being a
bodily pleasure.
ARISTOTLE. I think you should remember, Eudemus,
that it was you who mentioned poetry, not I. The meaning
of poetry can certainly be conveyed through the eye as well
as through the ear, though the sensuous pleasure of sound
which attaches to it cannot. But, interesting as this
discussion is, I am afraid we must not pursue it further.
We are all agreed, I think, that the pleasures which come
through the eye and ear are not the proper sphere of tem-
perance or intemperance, whether they are to be called
bodily pleasures or not.
Next in order we come to the pleasures of smell. Tem-
perance is concerned with these only indirectly, or by
association, that is in so far as they suggest the objects of
other desires. If a man exhibits an undue fondness for
perfumes or the smell of dainty dishes, he may expose
himself to a suspicion of intemperance.
THEOPHRASTUS. I can understand about the dainty
dishes but why 'perfumes '?
ARISTOTLE. The dream-interpreters tell us that if a Greek
—it does not follow, I believe, in the case of a Persian—
dreams of perfumes and dainty dishes, he is sure to lose
money. I will leave it to yourself to trace the connexion
of ideas.
But there are some pleasures of smell which resemble
those of sight and hearing in implying no previous want,
and in being the delights of nature in its normal state.
These affect the mind agreeably in themselves, and not
through the medium of memory or hope. Thus the
fragrance of some fruits is delightful in itself, apart from
any idea of eating them; and no one is called intemperate
from enjoying the smell of flowers or frankincense.
NICOMACHUS. When I'm hungry, father, I must confess
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that a good whiff of something cooking for dinner is most
delicious, especially if there are onions in it.
ARISTOTLE. There, my son, you will find many people
to agree with you. The satisfaction of a natural want is
necessarily attended with pleasure, so that what suggests it
is likely to be so too. Pleasure of this kind is as unavoid-
able as the pain or uneasiness which precedes it. But
when you are not hungry a smell of dinner, I fancy, would
be rather disagreeable to you than otherwise. Now the in-
temperate man delights in the smells of the kitchen at all
times, because they suggest to him the objects of his desires.
THEOPHRASTUS. But I suppose that even he may be so
sated with food that he cannot abide the very smell of it.
ARISTOTLE. That is true, but it is an extreme case.
To come back to our subject however. We have ex-
cluded the pleasures of smell from the strict sphere of
temperance as entirely as those of sight and hearing. It
is true that the pleasures of smell come under it indirectly
or by association, but then any pleasures whatever may
come under it in that way, even purely mental pleasures.
If a man likes to be honoured, because he will get the tid-
bits, instead of liking to get the tid-bits because they are
a sign of honour, we shall hardly be doing him an injustice
by concluding that there is a touch of intemperance.
about him.
}
We are now limited to the two senses of taste and touch,
which are commonly regarded as being equally the sphere
of intemperance.
It is a very significant fact that these are the only senses
from which the lower animals derive any direct pleasure.
The scent of the hare is no pleasure to the hounds in
itself, but only as being associated with food, which it puts
them in the way of procuring. When the lion seems to
rejoice in the lowing of the ox, it is not that the lowing
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itself is music to his ears, but that it serves him as a sort of
dinner-bell. And similarly, when he has seen or 'found
hornèd hart or wild goat,' it is not that his eye is pleased
with a fair form, but that his stomach is cheered with the
prospect of a meal.
Since the sphere of intemperance then is commonly
regarded as being just the two senses from which alone
the lower animals derive any direct pleasure, it is no wonder
that intemperance should be regarded as a degraded and
beastly vice.
EUDEMUS. I am disappointed to hear you say that the
lower animals take no direct pleasure in hearing. I thought
it was generally agreed that dolphins were fond of music,
and would follow a ship on board of which it was played.
What is to become of the story of Arion?
ARISTOTLE. Dolphins will follow a ship on which there
is no music. The story of Arion must be added to the
list of miracles.
THEOPHRASTUs. I have always heard that cats were
fond of valerian. As for dogs they seem to live for smell,
though their tastes certainly are peculiar.
ARISTOTLE. Well, I can only give you my judgement
for what it is worth. I have studied animals a good deal.
NICOMACHUS. Why were you so careful to say, father,
that the sphere of temperance is commonly regarded as
being the two senses of taste and touch? Do you not
think yourself it is?
ARISTOTLE. I am inclined to doubt myself whether
taste has much to do with it. Another of my observations
upon the lower animals is that they are not susceptible to
the pleasures of taste, the perception of which resides in
the tip of the tongue and in the palate. Their pleasure in
eating is derived from deglutition, which is a form of touch
rather than of taste. The function of taste is the discernment
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of flavours, as is done by those who try wines and season
dishes. Now your true glutton seems to me not to trouble
himself much about the discernment of flavours, but to be
more eager for the satisfaction of swallowing: he likes the
feel of the food as it goes down his throat.
THEOPHRASTUs. If that be so, one kind of food ought
to suit him as well as another.
ARISTOTLE. Not so.
All kinds do not feel alike to the
throat, any more than all substances feel alike to the touch.
The lower animals also have their preferences for one kind
of food over another. You have some confirmation of
what I am saying in the well-known prayer of the glutton,
that his gullet might become longer than a crane's. He
did not ask to have his tongue lengthened.
NICOMACHUS. Oh, I should like to know who he was,
father.
ARISTOTLE. His name was Philoxenus, and his father's
name was Eryxis, and, I believe, he belonged to Cythera.
That is all I can tell you about him.
THEOPHRASTUS. But if people test wines and season
dishes, it must be in order to give pleasure to other people,
or themselves, when they come to drink the wines and eat
the dishes; and some people, I suppose, will indulge more
than they ought in these pleasures of taste. Would you
not call such people intemperate ?
ARISTOTLE. I know it is usual to do so. But I doubt
whether they are called so in quite the strictest sense of
the term.
If this view of mine be correct, we have now narrowed
down the sphere of intemperance to the single sense of
touch whether as displayed in eating or drinking or in
what are called venereal pleasures. This sense of touch,
which is the strict sphere of temperance and intemperance,
is the most widespread of all the senses it exists in us,
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not as men but as animals. There is no living and moving
creature so low in the scale of being but what is capable of
this sense.
To find our chief pleasure then in satisfactions
which are common to us with all forms of animal life
is to sink below the level of man.
intemperance is justly reprehensible.
Hence the vice of
THEOPHRASTUs. May we not say that all the senses are
ultimately reducible to touch ?
ARISTOTLE. That view was held by Empedocles and
Democritus. I do not agree with it myself. But it would
carry us too far away from the subject to discuss it now.
EUDEMUS. How different temperance looks after passing
through your hands from the appearance it presents in
Plato's Republic! There there is nothing too wide for it:
it is the bond of union in the soul and in the state. You
narrow it down to the regulation of the pleasures derived
from a single sense, and that the lowest of all.
ARISTOTLE. I doubt whether I have narrowed it down
sufficiently yet. For there are certain higher pleasures
of touch with which temperance and intemperance have
nothing to do. Would any one think of branding a man
as intemperate if he took an excessive delight in a good
rub down after a bath with the glow which attends upon it?
Yet these are pleasures of touch. We must say then that
the touch with which intemperance is concerned does not
extend over the whole body, but is confined to certain parts.
We said at starting that the control of appetite was the
special function of temperance.
So now let us say some-
thing upon the subject of appetite.
To begin with, appetites may be divided into two classes.
There are-
(1) The common and natural;
(2) the peculiar and acquired.
To the former class belongs the desire for food and drink
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in general, which is necessary for the preservation of the
species, and the desire for sexual intercourse, which is
necessary for its propagation. That this last desire is
natural to the young man in his prime may be believed
even without Homer to testify to it. To the latter class
belongs the liking for this or that particular kind of food,
or the fancy for this or that particular person. In the
former all men agree, in the latter they differ indefinitely.
It is just as well that there should be these individual
differences: for if the same thing were pleasant to every one,
we should all be perpetually quarrelling. You need not
suppose, however, that differences of individual taste are
a mere matter of personal caprice. If one man likes fat
and another lean, there is probably something in their
physical constitution to account for this diversity. Take
the man who eschews fat, and put him to live at the
North Pole before long you will find him develope a
taste for blubber. Then again, though there is great variety
in individual tastes, yet the variation takes place within
limits. Every one likes almonds better than gravel.
Now in the common and natural desires error is only
possible in the direction of excess, and this is of rare
occurrence. It is seldom you meet with a man who is
ready to eat or drink anything until he has had too much
of it. This is to exceed the natural amount. As a rule
the desire ceases when the previous want has been supplied.
Such people as I have mentioned are called 'belly-mad,'
because they exceed all bounds in filling their belly. But
one must be very degraded to become like that. Other
forms of intemperance that have names are 'lewdness,'
'drunkenness' and 'gluttony,' of which the two last belong
rather to the peculiar desires. The desire for liquid in
excess, simply as liquid, has not received a name. It is
generally a symptom of disease.
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It is in the regulation of the peculiar desires that
temperance finds full scope for its exercise.
Here many
go wrong and in many ways. Those who are said to be
fond of so and so may go wrong in taking delight in things
in which they ought not, or in taking an inordinate delight
or a wrong kind of delight in things in themselves innocent.
You will find intemperance assuming all these forms of
excess with regard to pleasures; and in all of them it is
blameworthy.
NICOMACHUS. Did you not tell us, father, that intemper-
ance was also concerned somehow with pains?
ARISTOTLE. I did, my son.
NICOMACHUS. I don't see how it is. It seems to me
that the man who feels pain too much is a coward.
ARISTOTLE. Suppose you went out to dine, and that
when some dish for which you had a particular liking was
being handed round, the slave forgot to hand it to you.
Do you think you would be pleased at that ?
NICOMACHUS. I expect I should be in a boiling rage
with him.
ARISTOTLE. The disappointment and pain you felt would
be in proportion to the intensity of the pleasure anticipated.
The pain would be in a way created by pleasure. Now the
perfectly temperate man does not so set his soul upon any
mere bodily pleasure that the loss of it should cause him
any serious annoyance. That is the way in which temper-
ance is concerned with pains. You see it is quite a different
relation from that which courage bears to them. The
courageous man is so called from enduring pains which are
natural and inevitable; the temperate from not feeling
factitious pains.
The intemperate man, on the other hand, has his appetite.
awakened by all things that are pleasant, or by those which
are most so, and suffers himself to be led by appetite into
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choosing these to the detriment of higher objects. The
intensity of his enjoyments gives rise to equally intense.
pains, which are felt both when he misses the object on
which his appetite is set, and while he feels the appetite:
for appetite is always attended with pain, though it seems.
a sort of paradox that pleasure should give rise to pain.
The opposite character, who falls short of the temperate.
man in his enjoyment of pleasure, hardly ever occurs.
Such insensibility indeed is hardly human. The lower
animals, as I have said, distinguish between their foods,
liking one kind more than another. Any one who found
no pleasure in anything, and to whom one thing was just
the same as another, could scarcely be called a man.
EUDEMUS. Do not the Cynics display this insensibility to
pleasure?
ARISTOTLE. They affect it, but I doubt whether they
feel it. They have a craze against pleasure, and push
self-restraint to an extreme. Their position is that the
common and natural desires alone are right, and that
the individual and acquired are contrary to nature, which
I have endeavoured to show you is not the case. The
next extravagance, I suppose, will be to declare war even
upon the natural desires. But I doubt whether a Cynic
is less susceptible to pleasure than other men, though he
refuses himself its enjoyment on principle. Indeed, I can-
not help thinking that the extraordinary bitterness they
display and their love of saying sharp things is due in some
measure to envy against people who take life more easily
than they do themselves.
THEOPHRASTUs. You appear, however, to think all the
same that there are some people who are actually defective
in a sense of pleasure, although they may be of very rare
occurrence.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, there is such a thing to be met with as
Q
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a stolid or insensible man. I could even give you a descrip-
tion of his personal appearance.
THEOPHRASTUs. Nothing would interest me more.
ARISTOTLE. Well, you may observe that he has a good
deal of flesh, creased and entangled, about the neck and
legs, rounded hips and high shoulder-blades; his forehead.
is large, round and fleshy; he has a dull, green eye; his
shins are thick, fleshy and round, about the ankles; his
jaws are large and fleshy, his loins fleshy, his legs long,
his neck thick, his face fleshy and rather long.
Between the intemperate and the stolid character the
temperate man holds the just mean. Some of the things
which cause the intemperate man the most delight rather
serve to excite disgust in him; if a thing is wrong, he feels
no pleasure in it; nor does he delight vehemently in any
pleasures such as we are speaking of, nor feel the pain
of appetite in their absence, except so far as they are
necessary; or, if the pain of deprival ever does go in his case
beyond the natural desires, still it is felt moderately, not in
undue measure or at an undue time or anything else of that
sort: but such pleasures as are directly conducive to health
and good bodily condition he will allow himself to seek in
a moderate and proper way, and such other pleasures also
as are not unwholesome or wrong or above his means.
To seek pleasures that are any of these things would show
that he valued pleasure above its worth. But this is exactly
what the temperate man will not do, being guided in all
things by reason.
NICOMACHUS. Which is the worse vice, father, intemper-
ance or cowardice?
ARISTOTLE. When two things are utterly bad, my son,
is difficult to compare their badness.
it
THEOPHRASTUs. You gave us to understand that courage
is a harder virtue than temperance. So I suppose we may
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infer that the absence of courage is more excusable than
the absence of temperance.
ARISTOTLE. Well, if you look at any particular act of
intemperance, I think you will see reason to pronounce
that it is more voluntary, and therefore more reprehensible
than any particular act of cowardice.
(1) To begin with, an intemperate act is prompted by the
love of pleasure, but a cowardly act by the fear of pain.
Now pleasure is a thing to pursue, and pain a thing to
avoid; and pursuit implies more initial impulse than
avoidance. The one is a luxury, but the other presents
itself as a necessity.
(2) Again, the fear of pain is an overmastering impulse,
which dislodges for a time the natural character of the man
who feels it. The same can hardly be said of pleasure,
and this makes us more inclined to blame the man who
succumbs to it.
(3) Lastly, there are more frequent occasions in life for
the practice of temperance, and such practice involves
no risk, as that of courage does. If you wish, for instance,
to practise temperance in wine-drinking, all you have to do
is to put a bottle of peculiarly tempting wine within easy
reach of you, and not take a little when you feel disposed
to do so. But, if you want to practise courage, you have
to face cold iron or something equally disagreeable.
EUDEMUS. I can see that a particular act of intemper-
ance is voluntary, for indeed I have not forgotten the
arguments with which you armed me to prove that an act
which proceeds from our own appetite and inclination must
be so.
But when one looks at the state, the cause of
voluntariness seems to be gone. A man is tempted by
appetite into a particular act of intemperance: but there
is no such thing as an appetite for intemperance in the
abstract.
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ARISTOTLE. The state, like all other states, is voluntary
in its inception, involuntary in its issue.
THEOPHRASTUS. In the case of cowardice we seem to
have an exception to the law of the greater voluntariness
of acts than states. A particular act of cowardice, we have
seen, is involuntary, because attended with pain owing to
the presence of danger. But when one looks at the state,
the cause of involuntariness seems to be gone; for there
is no pain about the state. I suppose it would be true to
say that there is such a thing as a cringing and cowardly
disposition, which deliberately prefers submission to re-
sistance, and determines to avoid pain at all costs. For
this the same excuse cannot be pleaded as for the man
who throws away his shield in a panic or commits some
other unseemly act. So that the habit of cowardice as
a whole seems to be more voluntary than the particular
acts.
ARISTOTLE. Gently there, Theophrastus. You are running
away with the car. We have not seen that a particular act
of cowardice is involuntary, but only that it is more in-
voluntary than a particular act of intemperance. My own
position is that they are both voluntary, but you drove me
between you into comparing the two. A cowardly act
belongs to the class of mixed acts, and some of these we
put down as admitting of excuse.
As to the habit being more voluntary than the particular
acts, in so far as the habit results from the acts, it is, like
other habits, less voluntary than they: but in so far as the
craven disposition of which you speak is independent of
acts and self-chosen, it may fairly be called more voluntary
than a particular act of cowardice which is forced upon one
by fear.
NICOMACHUS. I remember that when my nurse was angry
with me she used to call me an 'intemperate brat.'
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ARISTOTLE. She meant, or might have meant, that you
had not been tempered or chastened as you ought to have
been. We apply the same term to the unruliness of children
and to a disorderly state of appetite in a man.
NICOMACHUS. Which do you consider to be the literal
and which the metaphorical meaning, father?
ARISTOTLE. That does not matter much to our present
purpose. But I suppose the one which comes later in time
is derived from the carlier. Anyhow, the metaphor is not
at all a bad one. For appetite and the child resemble each
other in more points than one. Both have a hankering
after pleasure; both have a great capacity for growth;
both require to be kept under strict control. If the impulse
to pleasure be not checked in time, there is no knowing
where it may lead one for in itself it is insatiable, and is
ready to attack the fool from every quarter. You gratify
one desire, and in so doing you wake up a whole family
of sleeping desires, which may ultimately become so strong
as to dethrone reason altogether. You see then how neces-
sary it is that one's appetites should be moderate and few
and in no way opposed to reason. When they are in this
state we may call them obedient and attempered. In the
temperate man the principle of appetite lives in obedience
to reason just as the child ought to live in obedience to
its tutor. His appetites never ask for what reason cannot
sanction; never clamour for indulgence in a wrong way
or at a wrong time. For the whole nature of the man
is in harmony with itself, and desire and reason conspire
to the one end-the attainment of the morally beautiful.
Let so much then suffice for us to have said about tem-
perance.
LECTURE XXII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, IV. 1]
I
LIBERALITY-ITS SPHERE AND DEFINITION
TO-DAY we are going to speak about liberality.
As to its sphere, we may say that it is the mean with
respect to property. For where does the liberal man find
his praise? Not in war, like the brave man; not in the
control of his appetites, like the temperate man; not in
the fairness of his decisions, like the just man; but with
regard to the giving and taking of property, and more
with regard to the giving.
When I speak of 'property,' you must understand me to
mean 'commodities' or 'wealth.' Better still, let me define
what I mean, and then there will be no chance of mistake.
I mean 'everything the value of which is measured in
money.' To say that a thing has a value in money is to
say that it has a value in exchange, for money is the
medium of exchange. There are things, like air and sun-
shine, which have the utmost value in use, but which are
not wealth, because they have no value in exchange.
Fortunately no one can make property of them.
The excess and defect in the same sphere are called
respectively prodigality and illiberality. The latter is a
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23I
wide term including, as we shall see, very different species,
but its sense is always one and the same. It signifies an
undue desire for wealth. The former term is ambiguous.
For when we talk of a 'prodigal,' we sometimes mean
merely one who wastes his substance, and sometimes one
who wastes his substance on riotous living. It is this second
use of the term that makes the prodigal seem such a bad
character, for it implies a complication of vices. But the
word properly signifies a man who has one definite vice,
that of destroying his substance. The prodigal, in fact, is
a kind of suicide. For to destroy one's substance is to
destroy oneself, since life is not possible without the means
of living. That is why we call a man's wealth his 'means.
Understand me then to use the term prodigal in the more
simple and less condemnatory sense.
People in general do not seem inclined to think that
it is the liberal man who makes the best use of wealth.
And yet this conclusion may be arrived at by a very slight
effort of reasoning.
Whatever has a use may be used well or ill.
Wealth has a use.
... Wealth may be used well or ill.
Now who is the man who will use it well?
Everything will be used best by the man who has the
virtue connected with that thing.
... Wealth will be used best by the man who has the
virtue connected with wealth.
And this is the liberal man.
Our point therefore is proved, that it is the liberal man
who makes the best use of wealth.
But understand that by the use of wealth we mean the
spending and giving; the receiving and keeping come.
rather under the head of getting and having. Wherefore
it is more the part of the liberal man to give to the right
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persons than to receive from the right sources and to
refrain from receiving from wrong ones. For virtue
generally is something active rather than passive, and
something positive rather than negative. To do good
belongs to it more than to receive good, and to perform
right actions rather than to refrain from wrong ones.
Now it is clear that doing good and acting rightly are
attendant upon giving, whereas the utmost that is attendant
upon receiving is the being done good to or the refraining
from wrong action. Again, thanks are paid to him who
gives, not to him who abstains from taking; and the same
holds true of praise. Also it is easier not to take than to
give for men are less disposed to spend their own sub-
stance than to refrain from taking what belongs to another.
For all these reasons, it is the active side of the virtue that
is prominent and merits praise. So that it is those who
give whom you find called liberal. Those who refrain from
taking are not praised on this score: their praise, if any,
belongs to justice. But those who take are not praised
at all.
EUDEMUS. I suppose if a man refrained from taking
what he was justly entitled to, he would deserve to be
called liberal?
ARISTOTLE. Yes, that comes to the same thing as giving,
though it is perhaps a little easier, as the loss is less
apparent to the imagination.
There is yet another reason, which I was about to
mention, for the superiority of the active over the merely
passive side of liberality. Though all virtue is worthy of
our love, yet this particular virtue is perhaps the one which
most attracts it. Who is loved so much as the liberal man?
But it is not by not taking that he wins this love, but by
being forward to give.
THEOPHRASTUS. I suspect the reason why we are so
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fond of the liberal man is, because we think that some
of the benefits he is slapping about may chance to come
our way.
ARISTOTLE. No doubt utility is at the bottom of the
feeling. But I must deprecate the expression which you
have just employed. The liberal man does not 'slap' his
benefits 'about.' If he did, he would not be liberal. All
virtuous acts are right and done for right's sake. To be
liberal then a man must give from the motive of right and
in the correct way, being careful to choose the proper
persons, the proper amount, the proper time, and so on.
Furthermore, the act of giving must cause him pleasure.
or, at all events, not cause him pain: for a virtuous act
is either positively pleasurable or at the least free from
pain; it is never actually painful.
THEOPHRASTUS. Was it not admitted that an act of
courage might be painful to the brave man ?
ARISTOTLE. As regards the means only, not the end.
But courage stands on quite a different footing from
liberality. Courage is painful in so far as the things which
it teaches one to bear cheerfully are painful by nature.
But the pain which is caused by giving, when to give is
right and noble, arises merely from an undue love of
wealth. It is a proof that the liberal man's state of mind
is not yet attained, if one prefers one's property to a right
act. You must therefore find some other name than
'liberal' for the man who gives grudgingly and of necessity,
putting force upon himself in order to do the right act.
You must also find some other name for the man who
gives to the wrong persons, and so on, or not from the
motive of right. A man who is not really liberal will often
be found to act liberally from the motive of ambition.
We have laid stress upon the active side of liberality,
as illustrating the active nature of virtue generally. But
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the passive side is, of course, a necessary condition. The
liberal man will not take from a wrong source. To take
in this way would manifestly indicate an undue desire for
wealth. Nor is one who is liberal likely to ask for things:
for it is not the part of one who confers benefits to let
himself be laid under an obligation. But while he avoids
taking from the wrong sources, he will not scruple to take
from the right ones, as, for instance, from his own property.
There is, of course, nothing noble about this, but still
without it the noble cannot be. If he were to neglect
his private property, he would cut himself off from the
means of performing his right and generous acts. The
same anxiety to give where and when it is really right to
give disinclines the liberal man to give to chance-comers.
An inattentive observer might sometimes deem him parsi-
monious. But let the liberal man be sure of his ground,
let him be convinced that the right occasion has come,
and he will give so unstintedly as to leave himself in lack:
for unselfishness is the very essence of liberality.
This interior nature of the virtue shows that liberality
is no mere question of quantity. There may be more
unselfishness displayed in parting with an obol than in
parting with a talent. It depends upon the proportion
which the gift bears to the amount of one's substance.
The liberality of a gift then does not depend upon the
amount given, but upon the state of mind of the giver.
THEOPHRASTUs. I suppose it is easier for some people
to attain the requisite state of mind than for others. At
all events I have noticed that those who have inherited
wealth are, as a rule, more liberal than those who have
acquired it.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, the virtue, or the appearance of it, is
made easier for the inheritors of wealth, for they have
never experienced want. And then again those who have
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made their own money set a double value upon it. They
value it, like other people, for its use, but they also love
it as their own production, as a parent loves his child or
a poet his poem. When then you see a man making a
good use of a fortune which he has spent pains in acquiring,
you may be sure that his liberality proceeds from a sense
of right, and not from mere confidence and inability to
imagine himself reduced to poverty.
THEOPHRASTUs. I am afraid that is a sight you seldom
see. They say Fortune is blind: but I have a notion that
she only shams blindness, and really peeps from behind
her bandages with the spiteful intention of putting wealth
into the hands of the least worthy.
ARISTOTLE. Fortune has enough abuse to bear already
without saddling her with things for which she really is not
responsible. When you can find a definite cause for a
thing, there is no longer any reason for ascribing it to fortune.
THEOPHRASTUS. And what definite cause is there for the
most worthy being the least wealthy?
ARISTOTLE. Why, the general rule that a man is not
likely to have a thing unless he takes pains to have it.
Now wealth is not the thing on which the virtuous man
sets his affections and concentrates his efforts. The goods
of the soul belong to an altogether higher class than
external goods. The man who chooses them chooses the
better part. But if he deliberately prefers the higher goods,
he cannot complain of fortune for not imparting to him
the lower. Fortune is really blind and absolutely indifferent
to merit. The reason why you think she favours the un-
worthy is that riches, to a great extent, do not depend on
Fortune, but belong to those who take most pains to acquire
them. You might reasonably suspect Fortune of partiality
if you found that the good, who are the most indifferent to
wealth, were possessed of it in equal measure with those
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who scramble for it. The unjust man has a natural ad-
vantage over the just man in amassing wealth, for he
neglects no source of acquisition whether right or wrong,
whereas the just man avails himself only of right sources.
Instead therefore of complaining that those who have the
higher goods are not given the lower into the bargain,
which I cannot help thinking indicative of a grab-all
disposition, you ought rather to rejoice that there are
consolation-prizes for those who are left behind in the
race of virtue.
If these remarks are true of virtue generally, they apply
in a special degree to the particular virtue which we are
now considering. That the liberal are seldom rich is
a natural consequence of the fact that they prefer giving to
taking or keeping. One might as well expect a cistern not
to get empty, out of which the water was flowing at one end
without flowing in at the other.
THEOPHRASTUS. When the liberal man's cistern has
run dry, I doubt if he will find others as ready to replenish
it as he was to fill theirs.
ARISTOTLE. A man's liberality should be confined to his
overflow. It is a mistake to deprive oneself of the
necessaries of life. But to the wise many things are
superfluities which to others appear necessaries. When
Socrates passed through a richly-stocked bazaar, he con-
gratulated himself by thinking 'How many things there are
of which I have no need!' The liberal man, being guided
by reason, will be careful to stop short of leaving himself
destitute. He is, as we have intimated, a man who spends
in proportion to his means and on proper objects. This
definition does not apply to a man who spends in a dis-
orderly way or to one who is too indolent or irrational to
brook the trouble of calculation. Either of these characters
is a prodigal.
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As it is characteristic of the prodigal to exceed his
means, we seldom call princes prodigal, because it is not
easy for them to exceed the amount of their possessions
even by such gifts and expenses as they indulge in.
To sum up then all that we have been saying. Liberality
being a mean state with regard to the giving and taking of
money, the liberal man will give and spend on proper
objects and a proper amount, alike in small things and in
great, and he will do it too with pleasure; also he will take
from the proper sources and the proper amount. For the
virtue, as we have said, is a mean with respect to both
giving and taking, so that he will do both in the way he
ought. Virtuous giving is naturally attended by virtuous.
taking, whereas any other kind of taking is incompatible.
with it. Now states of mind which are attendant upon one
another are found together in the same person, whereas
those which are incompatible clearly are not.
THEOPHRASTUS. With so many impostors going about,
I suppose the liberal man can't be expected always to
hit upon the proper objects whereon to exercise his virtue?
ARISTOTLE. He will make mistakes of course sometimes,
and will be pained when he does, but moderately and as he
ought. We are agreed already that moral virtue is con-
cerned with feeling pleasure and pain at the right things.
and in the right way.
NICOMACHUS. I should think the liberal man would be
a very good person to go into partnership with, father?
ARISTOTLE. Yes, you can impose upon him, if you have
a mind to, for he does not set store upon property, and is
more vexed with himself if he has failed to spend money
where he ought, than pained if he has chanced to spend
it where he ought not. I am afraid that a shrewd man of
the world, like Simonides, would have a poor opinion of the
liberal man.
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NICOMACHUS. I never imagined that a great poet like
Simonides could have answered to your description of him,
father?
ARISTOTLE. Many poets, my son, are not in the least like
the ideas that people have of them. Simonides had an
immense respect for riches. When Hiero's wife asked him
whether it was better to be wealthy or to be wise, he replied,
'to be wealthy; for I have often seen the wise spending
their time at the doors of the wealthy, but not the wealthy
at the doors of the wise.'
THEOPHRASTUs. I should say that that is because the
wise man knows what he wants, whereas the rich man is
too great a fool to do so.
ARISTOTLE. There's something in that. But I was going
to tell you another anecdote about Simonides, which may
perhaps disappoint Nicomachus. A man who had won the
prize in a mule-race wanted Simonides to celebrate his
exploit. So long as the inducement he offered was in-
adequate Simonides disdained to sing in praise of mules,
but when the victor made it worth his while he composed
the ode beginning—
'Hail, ye daughters of storm-footed steeds.'
THEOPHRASTUS. I suppose he thought it judicious to
suppress the fact that they were also daughters of donkeys?
ARISTOTLE. It might not have suited his purpose so well.
But we have managed to stray from the point. I was
speaking of the pain the liberal man feels when he has
missed a proper occasion for generosity or hit upon an
improper one. In these respects the prodigal man goes
quite astray. He neither feels pleasure and pain at the
right things nor in the right way. But this will be more
manifest as we go on. For, as we have said enough about
the mean, it is now time that we should turn our attention
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to the extremes. These are, as I have told you, prodigality
and illiberality; and their sphere, like that of liberality,
extends to the two things, giving and taking: for spending
we may set down under the head of giving. Now pro-
digality is in excess in giving and in abstaining from taking,
but in defect in taking, whereas illiberality is in defect
in giving and in excess in taking, but always in small
matters.
EUDEMUS. May I ask why you add that last quali-
fication ?
ARISTOTLE. Because, if a tyrant were to possess himself
of the whole state, although he took a wrong amount and in
a wrong way and so on, you would hardly call his act
'illiberal,' but would want some bigger word to express your
detestation of his conduct.
The two sides of prodigality are, from the nature of the
case, not often found in conjunction; since it is not easy
to give to every one, if you don't take from anywhere.
When private persons make a practice of giving, their
property quickly fails them. Then they get called 'pro-
digal,' though, while they were giving, they were probably
called 'generous' by the recipients of their bounty.
THEOPHRASTUS. You don't seem to regard the prodigal
as being such a bad character after all?
ARISTOTLE. Not if you mean the prodigal pure and
simple. I think he is a good deal better than the illiberal
man.
THEOPHRASTUS. I have heard the opposite view strongly
maintained.
ARISTOTLE. I don't see how it can be. The prodigal
has the attributes of the liberal man in the rough: he is
inclined to give and, while undepraved, not inclined to
take. His fault is that he does not give wisely and well.
Let him be rightly trained, and he becomes liberal, since
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It is no
his fault is rather of the head than of the heart.
sign of a vicious or ignoble disposition to be in the excess
in giving and not taking, but rather of a fool.
Then again, even without direction from others, prodi-
gality admits of being cured either by age or by experience
of distress.
Lastly, the prodigal does good to many persons, while
the illiberal does good to no one, not even, if he be a miser,
to himself.
THEOPHRASTUs. That is just the point I have heard
controverted. Some people maintain that the miserly man
does more good to society than the spendthrift.
ARISTOTLE. How can that be?
THEOPHRASTUs. Because saving leads to investment,
and investment to the production of wealth; whereas
the spendthrift's property is frittered away, and generally
goes to enrich exactly the wrong persons.
ARISTOTLE. The miser I was thinking of only invests his
money in a hole in the ground. But there is something in
what you say, if the times are secure enough to admit of
investment.
THEOPHRASTUS. Do you agree then with the view that
I have mentioned? I do not pretend that it is my own.
ARISTOTLE. If I regarded society as a joint-stock com-
pany for the production of wealth, I certainly would agree.
with it. But I look upon a state as having different and
higher ends in view. While quite willing to admit then
that the miser, under certain conditions, confers more
material benefit upon society than the prodigal, I am by no
means prepared to grant that the question is thereby settled
in favour of the ethical superiority of the miser. For
a slight increase in the spirit which leads to the com-
munication of wealth is of more real value to society than
a large increase of wealth itself. Now if you judge the two
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characters from this standpoint, which of them comes off
the better? As I said before, you can make a liberal man
out of a prodigal, but you will never make one out of
a miser. Let us grant to the miser greater foresight and
self-restraint, though his self-restraint is really only a diseased
passion for accumulation, yet is there any one who does not
like the man who is too free with his money better than the
man who is too close with it?
THEOPHRASTUS. You know that I suggested a reason
for that.
ARISTOTLE. I do not deny its force. But, apart from
such bias to the judgement, I think that there is a justifica-
tion for the general feeling. Let us try to penetrate into
the secret springs from which the two tendencies proceed.
Penuriousness is, I suppose, the outcome of selfishness and
fear; prodigality of confidence and goodwill, or, at the
worst, of vanity and ostentation, which imply a desire for
the approbation of others. Heedless extravagance may
undoubtedly lead to a great deal of mischief. Still, I think
there is no question but that it is the index of a more social
temperament than its opposite defect. If you really agree
with me, Theophrastus, in thinking that to do good is better
than to receive it, I do not think you will attach weight to
the arguments of those who would extol the man who does
not attempt to do good over him who attempts it in an
ill-directed way.
THEOPHRASTUSs. If he does attempt it. But it seems to
me that the prodigal is no less selfish than the miser, though
in a different way.
ARISTOTLE. Now, I think, you are shifting ground.
I guarded my statement from the first by talking of 'the
prodigal pure and simple.' For the prodigal in the complex.
sense I have nothing to say. He is a very bad character,
and suffers, as I have said, from a complication of vices.
R
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He not only wastes his substance, but he wastes it on
riotous living; and, having a lust to spend, and with no
rule of right to guide him, he becomes equally anxious to
take, no matter from what quarter. He is therefore guilty
of three vices of prodigality, in that he spends recklessly;
of intemperance, in that he spends on personal luxury;
and of illiberality, in that he takes from wrong sources.
Here we have one of those instances of extremes meeting,
to which Eudemus drew our attention, when the man who
begins by being prodigal ends by being illiberal as well.
And this is too often the natural destiny of the prodigal
pure and simple, if left untutored. For, as he is of a dis-
position to spend readily, he will spend, among other things,
on the gratification of his personal desires. But as desire
grows by being gratified, his appetites will be getting
stronger as his property gets less. So that in the end he
will be driven into taking from wrong sources, in order to
indulge his appetites. But do not let us mix up vices
simply because they are often found together. The worst
feature about this character is his intemperance, not his
prodigality. It is quite possible for a man to have strict
control over all his appetites, and to suffer simply from
incontinence of cash. The man who has this one definite
vice is, I maintain, a much better character than the miser.
THEOPHRASTUs. I admit that I was thinking of the
prodigal in the complex sense when I spoke of the prodigal
being as selfish as the miser. But now I will maintain the
same thing of the prodigal pure and simple.
ARISTOTLE. How can you call a man selfish whose only
fault is that he is too willing to give and too unwilling.
to take?
THEOPHRASTUs. Because he only does it to gratify his
own inclination. Selfishness in him happens to assume the
form of a spurious and heedless benevolence.
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ARISTOTLE. Then we must settle what we mean by
selfishness. You seem to be saying that all acts whatever
are selfish. For certainly whenever a man does anything,
he does it to gratify his own inclination. But it is usual to
call him selfish or otherwise according to what that inclina-
tion is. I should define selfishness as the preference of
oneself to others as regards external goods. Would you
say that the prodigal displays this preference?
THEOPHRASTUS. Not as regards wealth, but he may as
regards honour. You have told us that honour is as much
an external good as wealth, and that the prodigal's spring
of action may be simply vanity and ostentation.
ARISTOTLE. You have certainly made a point there,
Theophrastus, but I do not feel that I am driven to abandon
my preference for the prodigal. For though his action
may be, and I daresay often is, prompted by vanity, it may
also be prompted by goodwill. But, even if you put the
worst construction on the conduct of the prodigal, I should
still prefer him to the miser, since honour, which he covets,
is a higher form of good than wealth. Moreover, a rivalry
for honour is, on the whole, much more beneficial to society
than a scramble for wealth.
Now look at illiberality, and see how little there is to be
said for it.
In its form of miserliness, it is the fault of a weak and
timid nature. A man of bolder spirit expects easily to be
able to supply his own wants, and so does not see why he
should not stretch out his hand to help his fellows. But
the miser is afraid to help another for fear he should come
to want himself. This is why the vice is so incurable. For
old age and every form of incapacity tends only to intensify
it: so that we are met by the melancholy spectacle, that the
less a man has of life's journey before him the more eager
he is to supply provisions for it. To find the reason of
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this, we must go to the bottom of things. Men love life
inordinately, and therefore they love inordinately the means.
of living.
The last consideration shows us why illiberality is a
vice more inherent in the nature of man than prodigality.
The majority of men derive far more pleasure from
wealth (which symbolizes life) than they do from liber-
ality.
Furthermore illiberality is a vice of wide extent and
which assumes many shapes. Hitherto we have looked at
it only under the form of miserliness. But we must not
forget that this is to confine it to half its sphere. It
embraces excess in taking as well as defect in giving.
The former is the phase under which it generally presents
itself in robuster natures, and here it runs into the wildest
injustice. Sometimes the two sides of the vice are united
in one person; and then you have the avaricious and
unscrupulous man, who covets the goods of others, and
takes them when he can, at the same time that he is
tenacious of his own. Sometimes, again, the two sides are
separate, and you find one set of men who are in the excess
in taking and another who are in the defect in giving.
The people who go under the names of 'thrifty,' 'close-
fisted,' 'niggards,' are all in the defect in giving, but they do
not attempt to possess themselves of their neighbours'
goods. In some this restraint is due to conscientiousness
for you may have a man who would not give away a farthing
that belonged to himself, but who would be just as unlikely
to take a farthing that belonged to another. The 'cheese-
parer' illustrates the kind of man I mean; he would assure
you that the motive for his parsimony was to avoid his ever
being driven into doing wrong through want. Others,
however, are kept honest simply through fear. They think
that robbery is a game that two can play at, and that they
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themselves might come off second best at it, if they began :
so they are content neither to take nor give.
The other set of men, who are in the excess in taking,
are ready to take anything from anywhere. They will ply
mean trades, keep brothels, and so on, and lend small sums
of money at a high rate of interest.
THEOPHRASTUs. I think a good many citizens of Athens,
who pass for respectable men, would complain of you for
the company in which you are putting them.
ARISTOTLE. I cannot help that. The usurer has been
a hateful character since the world began, because, instead
of helping his fellow-man in his distress, he takes advantage
of it to make profit for himself. He is characterized by the
same passion as the rest, which is a sordid love of gain.
For they are all ready to endure reproach for the sake
of gain, and that too a small gain.
THEOPHRASTUs. I suppose you mean that, when the
same thing is practised on a large scale, the reproach is apt.
to pass into admiration.
ARISTOTLE. Yes: men are such worshippers of power
that they forget that the lust for gain which leads to sacking
cities and plundering temples is only a magnified form of
the same spirit which would annex your pocket-handkerchief.
If they condemn these acts at all, it is by words befitting
their dignity, such as 'wickedness,' 'impiety,' and 'injustice'
The gambler however, the highwayman, and the brigand
-these every one would describe as illiberal, since they are
all of them animated by a base desire for gain.
NICOMACHUS. I don't see why the gambler should be
described as illiberal, father, if he risks his money fairly.
against yours.
ARISTOTLE. Because he is ready to take from his friends,
to whom he ought rather to give.
NICOMACHUS. But suppose he only plays at a public table
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ARISTOTLE. He will still be taking from his friends, for
all fellow-countrymen are, or should be, friends. Gambling
is a form of civil war. It is as though men were to cease to
till the ground, and trust to getting hold of their neighbours'
crops. It is easy to see that this, if practised on a large.
scale, would be disastrous to a nation.
As for the other characters whom I mentioned-the
highwayman and the brigand-they display their base love
of gain in being willing to face not only disgrace but danger
too in its pursuit.
On the whole, then, we may fairly conclude that illiberality
is rightly regarded as being more opposed to liberality than
prodigality is. It is a worse vice in itself than the other,
and is also one to which men are more prone.
Let so much then suffice for liberality and its contrary
vices. But perhaps before you go I had better draw you
a scheme of the various forms of illiberality which I have
been mentioning.
Illiberal
in the defect in giving
from a kind of
conscientiousness
from fear
thrifty
close-fisted
niggard
cheese-parer
in the excess in taking-from a love
of base gain
brothel-keeper, &c.
usurer
gambler
highwayman
brigand.
LECTURE XXIII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, IV. 2]
MAGNIFICENCE-ITS SPHERE AND DEFINITION
THE treatment of magnificence forms a natural sequel to
that of liberality, since the two have to some extent the
same sphere, both virtues being concerned with wealth.
The sphere of magnificence however is more restricted.
than that of liberality. You can display liberality in not
taking as well as in giving, whereas there can be no mag-
nificence apart from actual outlay. The sphere of magnifi-
cence then is confined to the outlay of money. But herein
it surpasses liberality in amount: so that we may say that
its sphere is the outlay of money on a large scale. This
however would not by itself be enough to distinguish it.
We have to add a further qualification. It would be quite
possible for two men to spend the same amount on the
same kind of object, and yet for one of them to display
the utmost magnificence, and the other none at all. How
can that be, Nicomachus?
NICOMACHUS. One of them might be actuated by a wrong
motive, say, to display his wealth.
ARISTOTLE. We will suppose that they are both actuated
by the motive of right, which is essential to virtue of any
kind. Now how can it be?
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NICOMACHUS. Perhaps one of them might give from less
means than the other.
ARISTOTLE. That would show that he was more liberal, but
he might still be less magnificent than the other. Here is
my problem. Given two men of equal means, both actuated
by the motive of right, who spend the same amount on the
same kind of object, and yet one of whom displays
the utmost magnificence and the other none at all-How
can that be?
NICOMACHUS. It is
in the way they do it.
other not.
plain that there must be a difference
Perhaps one has good taste and the
ARISTOTLE. That is just it. The one may fail in mag-
nificence for want of taste and knowledge. There is an
aesthetic and intellectual element in magnificence, whereby
it is distinguished from mere liberality, not only in degree
but in kind. This is the further qualification of which we
were in search. And now, by determining the exact sphere
of magnificence, we have arrived at a definition of the
virtue itself. We may say that it is the state of mind which
leads to outlay on a large scale in good taste.
The largeness of scale and necessity for artistic effect are
both implied in the very name. You must not therefore
think of magnificence as merely a bigger kind of liberality.
For it differs from the other virtue in three ways-
(1) in sphere, being confined to expenditure ;
(2) in degree, being on a larger scale;
(3) in kind, as it involves an element of good taste.
The difference in sphere has been already loosely indi-
cated. If pressed, it resolves itself into a discussion of the
virtue generally.
Neither can the difference in degree be treated with
precision by itself. We can only roughly say that magnifi-
cence is that species of liberality which deals with large
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matters. When Homer makes Odysseus say 'To the
wayfarer oft would I give,' we may safely set that down
under the head of liberality, not of magnificence. It is
therefore on the difference in kind that we ust fix our
chief attention. For the largeness of scale is, of course,
relative or proportional. Thus there is not the same
expense required for a trierarch as for the leader of a sacred
embassy. Mere amount of expenditure indeed is more
likely to be indicative of the vice of ostentation than of the
virtue of magnificence. All depends upon the good taste
or propriety which directs it. This propriety has regard to
the person himself, that is, the donor, to the occasion, and
to the object. We will speak of these in their order; but
I wish first to make a few general remarks about the virtue.
The defect of magnificence is called 'shabbiness'; the
excess 'ostentation,' 'vulgarity,' or 'bad taste.' The excess
is brought about, not by surpassing the magnificent man in
amount spent on proper objects, but by making a show
on improper occasions and in an improper way.
But we
will speak of the vices after we have discussed the virtue.
The distinguishing feature of the magnificent man is his
artistic instinct. He is able to discern the proper thing to
do, and to spend large sums of money in a tasteful way.
It is this which leads us to give the name that we do to the
state. For every state or habit has its character fixed by
the acts (as we said in the beginning) and by the objects
with which it is concerned. Therefore the acts must be
great and becoming, since they tend to fix a habit of great
and becoming expenditure. Just the same two attributes
of grandeur and beauty will attach to the results of the
magnificent man's expenditure: for so only will the great-
ness of the expense be befitting to the result. The work
then must be worthy of the expense, and the expense of the
work, or even in excess of it. Of course the animating
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motive in all that the magnificent man does must be to
realise the beautiful: for without this there is no virtue.
What he does too he will do with pleasure and with
a lavish hand; for minute calculation is a sign of
shabbiness.
His chief consideration will be how to produce the most
beautiful and becoming result, not 'How much will it cost?'
or 'How may it be done cheapest?'
We have already said vaguely that magnificence is that
species of liberality which deals with large matters, but this
is not enough, since the difference between the two states is
not one merely of degree, but of kind. Even within his
own sphere the liberal man will be surpassed by the
magnificent in a matter of outlay. Not that the liberal man
will not spend the right amount in the right way, but simply
because, if he be liberal and nothing more, he will lack the
taste and knowledge which enable the magnificent man to
produce a more striking effect at the same cost.
The result of the magnificent man's expenditure is of the
nature of a work of art, and he himself is a kind of artist.
Now grandeur and beauty, as I said before, are the charac-
teristic merits of a work of art. They serve to impress the
imagination, and this is just what the magnificent does.
The liberal man may give you a thing which costs him
as much as the result of his activity costs the magnificent
The merit
man, but it will be a chattel, not a work of art.
of a chattel is value, not size or beauty-indeed, the smaller
the better: gold and jewels compress the greatest value into
the smallest bulk.
These were the general remarks which I had to make.
Let us now speak of propriety as regards the person, the
occasion, and the object.
And first, of the person.
Magnificence is not a virtue which, like liberality, is open
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to rich and poor alike. A beggar may be liberal with his
last crust, but he has no scope for magnificence. Magnifi-
cence then is a rich man's virtue, as wealth is an indispen-
sable condition of it. The poor man who attempts it is
simply a fool. He lacks the means of success and
is violating all fitness by the attempt, which is not the part
of virtue.
But wealth is not the only condition. You want also
men of birth, reputation, and dignity, and generally men
whose antecedents constitute a claim upon them for its
exercise. These things carry with them grandeur and
dignity; and propriety demands that there should be the
same attributes about the worker as there are about his
work. When Themistocles in the days of his obscurity
tried to rival Cimon at Olympia in the splendour of hist
entertainments, tents, and paraphernalia generally, he con-
trived merely to get himself set down as a braggart by the
public opinion which approved of the same thing in
the scion of a noble house.
Next, of the occasion.
The most fitting occasions for the display of this virtue
are those of public interest. We have not set it down
under the head of 'civic virtues,' but it also is worthy of
the name, since public spirit enters largely into it. A man
has scope for its display when he is acting as choregus,
trierarch, or phylarch, still more if it should come in his
way to give a banquet to the whole state.
In private life the virtue is best exercised on striking
occasions such as are not likely to recur, for instance,
a wedding; also in the case of things which, though done
by private persons, have an interest for the public or for
men of reputation. Thus magnificence is peculiarly in
place with regard to the reception or dismissal of distin-
guished strangers, and in giving or returning them presents.
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Such gifts as these have a resemblance to votive offerings.
There is an impersonal element about them, as they are
bestowed for the credit of the state.
Lastly, of the object.
We have already trenched on this ground in speaking
of the occasion, for the two are not easily separable. But
we may say that the most proper objects of all on which
to exercise the virtue are those connected with divine
worship, such as votive offerings, the building of temples,
and sacrifices. For religion is essentially an affair of the
state, and a matter, not of personal but of general interest.
When a stranger visits a city, it is the temples chiefly that
attract his attention. A tomb also may be a fitting object
for the display of magnificence, though not of course on
the same scale as a temple. Propriety is the very essence
of the virtue. Among things not connected with religion,
some public work like a bridge, which strikes the eye and
impresses the imagination, is the sort of object which the
magnificent man would choose for his expenditure. A per-
manent object like this is more appropriate than a transient
one; for since the beauty lasts longer, it may be said to
be greater.
Though the magnificent man does not spend money on
personal gratification, but rather on public objects, yet this
will not prevent his dress being handsome, as the expres-
sion of his love of the beautiful, nor his house, which is
a kind of extension of dress. Ornamentation, we may
remark, is never purely irrelevant; it is rather the necessary
carried into superfluity. Now clothing and shelter are
necessaries: but in the magnificent man they will become
a source of beauty.
This love of beauty, which is inseparable from the
magnificent man, will accompany him even into small
matters, which are less obviously the sphere of the virtue.
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For anything can be magnificent by being great in its own
kind, and though the most magnificent are those which
are great in a great kind, yet you may have magnificence
apart from these. You may also have a result which is
great in its own kind, even where the expense, considered
absolutely, is not great. The most beautiful ball or bottle
that is to be had is magnificent as a present to a child,
though the price even of the most costly is something
small and paltry. We may therefore say that it is the part
of the magnificent man, whatever he does, to do it magnifi-
cently, so that his work cannot be surpassed within its own
kind and is worthy of what he has spent on it.
Such then is the magnificent man.
As his work cannot be surpassed within the limits of
propriety, it is evident that the man who surpasses him
must violate propriety. And this is just what the ostenta-
tious or vulgarly profuse man does, spending a great deal
on occasions that do not call for it, and making a display
in bad taste. When it comes to his turn to entertain some
modest club of 'good fellows,' he will give them a feast
fit for a wedding-banquet, forgetting, or wilfully ignoring,
the fact that his fellow-members may be mortified at seeing
a display which they could not rival, if they would. Or
perhaps he is choregus to a company of comedians, and
then he will have the entrance to the stage hung with
purple, instead of with the sheepskins which are usual in
comedy. And all this he will do, not from any motive of
right or love of the beautiful, but simply to exhibit hist
wealth, and under the idea that he is attracting admiration
by spending a great deal where he ought to spend little,
while all the time he is neglecting the occasions that really
call for expenditure.
十 ​The shabby man, on the other hand, will be in the
defect in everything. If he is giving a wedding-banquet
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for an only son, he will lay out such a feast as the other
ought to have provided for his dinner-club. Even where
he has gone to the greatest expense, he will spoil the effect
by some petty meanness. He will do nothing readily, but
put it off as long as he can, always considering how he
can spend least over it. And when he does spend, he will
grumble over it, and imagine that he is doing everything
on a greater scale than is necessary.
These two states then that I have been describing, namely,
shabbiness and vulgar profusion, are vices. They do not
however incur reproach, because they do no harm to one's
neighbour, and their unseemliness is of a kind to provoke
ridicule rather than reproach.
NICOMACHUS. I don't quite see, father, wherein the
shabby man differs from the illiberal man, in so far,
I mean, as the vice of the latter consists in a reluctance
to give or spend.
ARISTOTLE. Why just in this, that the shabby man does
spend. Shabbiness can only be displayed in spending, as
the vices opposed to magnificence must have the same
sphere as magnificence itself. But the shabby man spoils
the effect of his spending by underdoing it, wherein he
is opposed to the vulgarly profuse man, and also by the
want of taste which is common to him with the other.
EUDEMUS. Is magnificence necessarily confined to the
spending of money? I have heard people talk of magnifi-
cence displaying itself in the features or in the gait. This
would seem to point to some other use of the term.
ARISTOTLE. A word generally has transferred or meta-
phorical uses. But the literal meaning of magnificence is,
I think, what I have given to it.
THEOPHRASTUS. You said that magnificence was not
a virtue which was open to all. Does not this seem to
show that it is not a virtue at all?
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ARISTOTLE. I do not think so. A virtue may require
certain conditions under which it is to be exercised. How
could you be liberal, if you were living alone?
THEOPHRASTUs. But liberality is open to all members
of society, while magnificence is confined to a very few.
ARISTOTLE. I agree with you in thinking this a proof
that it is not a virtue on a level with the rest. The extent
to which magnificence is a virtue may be measured by the
extent to which the opposite states are vices.
THEOPHRASTUS. It seems to me to be only liberality
over again with a dash of art thrown in. Is it really a
moral virtue at all?
ARISTOTLE. So far as the element of liberality goes, it
is certainly a moral virtue. And for the rest, I suppose
you will not deny that magnificence is a state which leads
one purposely to choose the rational mean between vulgar
profusion and shabbiness, with a view to the realisation
of the beautiful.
THEOPHRASTUs. Yes, but the beautiful it realises is the
literally and physically beautiful, whereas in the other cases,
when you spoke of the realisation of the beautiful, you
meant the morally beautiful or right.
ARISTOTLE. But is it not right that a man should aim
at the beautiful? These ideas are hard to disentangle.
NICOMACHUS. You spoke of magnificence, father, as
being distinguished from mere liberality by an aesthetic or
intellectual element. Perhaps it ought to go down under
the head of intellectual virtue.
THEOPHRASTUS. Would it not be possible for a man
to have a most penetrating intellect, and yet be deficient
in a taste for art?
ARISTOTLE. I suppose that is conceivable. Perhaps we
ought to say that magnificence, in so far as it differs from
liberality, is an aesthetic rather than a moral virtue.
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THEOPHRASTUS. That leads me to question on another
ground its claim to be properly considered a virtue. Can
we say that it is a state of purpose, when it depends upon
good taste? Surely good taste is a natural gift?
ARISTOTLE. How far good taste can be acquired is a
question which we may consider another time. But in
the willingness to spend at all events magnificence is
a state of purpose.
THEOPHRASTUs. I wonder what led you to include mag-
nificence in the list of virtues ?
ARISTOTLE. Well, if I had begun the practice, you might
wonder, but, as every one else has done it before me, there
is the less cause for surprise. I can quite believe, however,
that the virtue is one which owes its prominence to acci-
dents of place and time. I told you, if you remember,
in a former lecture, that I did not wish to dogmatize about
the exact number of the virtues, because under different
social circumstances different mental states may become
prominent in that regard. Now I think we can see enough.
in the conditions of life around us to account for the,
perhaps factitious, importance assigned to this quality,
especially at Athens. Here the many poor have contrived
to educate the few rich into the idea that it is their highest
privilege to serve them. So many liturgies or public services
are imposed upon the wealthy, that it is really better to
be poor than rich at Athens; you have all the advantages
of affluence without the responsibilities. Now in the per-
formance of these services to the state there is no surer
road to popular applause with so artistic a people as the
Athenians than to gratify their love of art by sumptuous
display. Hence, I take it, the prominence assigned among
us to magnificence as a praiseworthy mental state.
LECTURE XXIV
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, IV. 3]
GREATNESS OF SOUL: THE GREAT-SOULED MAN
TO-DAY we have to do with greatness of soul.
The name itself indicates that it is concerned with great
things of some kind. Let us first ask-of what kind?
There are two courses open to us in treating the subject.
We may deal with greatness of soul in the abstract or with
the man of great soul in the concrete. Which shall it be?
NICOMACHUS. Oh do let us have it in the concrete,
father! It was so interesting when you were describing
the magnificent man to us, and those other characters,
the ostentatious and the shabby man.
ARISTOTLE. So let it be, my son. I will endeavour to
sketch to you the character of the man of great soul.
The man of great soul then is he who thinks himself
worthy of great things and is worthy of them. Of course
the latter qualification is vital to the conception. If a man
thinks himself worthy of great things without being worthy
of them, he is a fool, and this sufficiently disqualifies him
from being considered virtuous. The same remark applies
to the man who is worthy of great things, but does not
think himself so: it is no proof of moral virtue to be
S
258
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mistaken in your judgement. If a man is not worthy of
great things, and does not think himself so, he is so far
forth a man of sense, since his judgement corresponds.
with the reality. In this respect he is the same in kind
with the man of great soul, and superior to either of the
other characters whom we have mentioned. We may call
him 'sober-minded.' If his merits could by some means
be enhanced, he would be a man of great soul, since his
judgement of himself, corresponding as it does to the
reality, would expand in proportion. But, as it is, he is
obviously not a man of great soul, since his merits are
not great. For greatness of soul is as inseparable from
greatness of merit as handsomeness from size. A person
of small stature may be dainty or well-proportioned, but
handsome-no. If Homer mentions a fair woman, he is
pretty sure to add that she is tall. And to manly beauty
size is still more essential.
Of the two extremes the man who thinks himself worthy
of great things, while unworthy of them, is vain. Not that
I mean to say every one is vain who thinks more of himself
than he ought.
NICOMACHUS. Pardon my interrupting you, father. But
how can it be that a man is not vain who thinks more of
himself than he ought?
ARISTOTLE. Because his error may be unavoidable. Take,
for instance, the case of a young prince brought up among
flatterers. He is assured by his tutors, who are venerable
persons with grey beards, that he is possessed of great
abilities, and he believes them, perhaps in spite of his
own impression and out of sheer modesty, because he
thinks they are wiser than he. Experience may afterwards
lead him to correct the error, but till it has done so, he
will think too much of himself without being vain. This
is one way in which the thing is possible, but besides this
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we do not call a man vain,' until his overestimate of his
own merits becomes glaring.
The man who thinks less of himself than he ought is
a man of little soul, whether his merits be great or moderate,
or whether they be little, but he rates himself at still less.
It is the man whose merits are really great who has most
of the particular vice which we are now discussing. For
into what depths of self-abasement would he not fall, if his
merits were less than they are ?
The man of great soul, then, while in one sense in the
extreme, namely, in the amount of his self-appreciation,
is in the mean in point of propriety, as he estimates himself
at his true worth, whereas the other two characters are in
excess or defect.
But, since the man of great soul thinks himself worthy of
great things, and especially of the greatest, there must be
some one thing with which he will be principally concerned.
EUDEMUS. May I ask, why not several?
ARISTOTLE. Because in the nature of the case there must
be some one thing which is greatest.
NICOMACHUS. Then I suppose the man of great soul
thinks himself worthy of happiness, father?
ARISTOTLE. Happiness is his already, my son, since he
is virtuous. I ought perhaps to explain that 'worth' is
a relative idea. If a man is 'worthy,' he must be worthy
of something. Now the goods of the soul belong to such
a man as we are speaking of, and it is these which constitute
his worth. Without them a man is really worthless, what-
ever claims to respect either he or others may fancy that
he has. But a thing cannot be measured against itself.
Worth therefore must be expressed in terms of some other
goods. These other goods must be either bodily or ex-
ternal. But bodily goods may be put out of the question.
They belong to a man or not according to the grace of
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260
[LECT.
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nature. Socrates was not much favoured by her in respect
of beauty, and yet his, I suppose, was the greatest soul
which has ever appeared among us. We are left therefore
with external goods, in terms of which worth can be ex-
pressed. But some of these are too low to serve our
purpose. Who, for instance, would think of measuring
the worth of the great-souled man in oxen? So we come
back to our former question in a more precise shape, and
have now to ask-What is the greatest of external goods?
The answer to this question I conceive to be 'honour';
and I will give you three reasons for my opinion—
(1) It is the only good which we assign to the Gods.
(2) It is most coveted by men of dignity.
(3) It is the prize for the noblest achievements.
The vulgar indeed seem to think that the Gods are
pleased with the smell of burnt-offerings. But, as I am
not now addressing a popular audience, I need not guard
my words. The world will get beyond that in time.
The second argument is one from authority. What the
highest minds are most eager to attain we may reasonably
conclude to be best worth attaining. As to the third point,
what is it for which the athlete, soldier, poet, statesman
strive but honour? Again, if a man does you some paltry
service, you can reward him with a few drachmas, but, if he
saves your life at the risk of his own, you would insult him
by the offer of money.
It is therefore to honours and dishonours that the man
of great soul stands related as he ought. These are the
peculiar sphere of his virtue. Perhaps indeed it has been
a waste of words to prove this, for it is a thing which no
one disputes. You have only to look at the world to see
that the men of greatest souls are most occupied with
honour. But the man who possesses the virtue of which
we are speaking claims it in due proportion to his merits.
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The man of little soul is doubly in the defect, for his
opinion of his own merits falls short of the reality, and at
the same time those merits are inferior to the worth of the
man of great soul. The vain man on the other hand is in
excess only as regards himself: but his merits cannot
surpass those of the man of great soul.
It is clear then that the man of great soul, if he be really
worthy of the greatest things, must be the best of men,
seeing that a man's worth is always proportioned to his
goodness. But it is not enough for him to be good, he
must be greatly good. You cannot conceive of such a man
running away helter-skelter or committing injustice. For
why should he demean himself, who counts nothing great?
And if you run through the virtues, you will find that
pretensions to greatness of soul are ridiculous in one who
lacks them. Nor would the honour that he claims in that
case be justly his: for honour is the prize of virtue and is
awarded to the good. Greatness of soul then is a kind of
crowning glory of the virtues it enhances them, at the
same time that it cannot exist without them. This is what
makes it so hard to be really a man of great soul, since
it is not possible without perfect virtue. Honour, power,
prosperity, wealth, all these things, which are goods in
themselves, may be evils to a man of lesser merit, and may
corrupt his virtue. The man who cannot be spoiled by
them--he is the man in whom virtue has done her perfect
work. And so he chooses them all, when they come in
his way, but especially, as we have said, honour. When
great honours are paid him by good men, he will be pleased.
in moderation, as though meeting with his deserts or even
less than them. For what honour can be adequate to
perfect virtue? He will accept it however from them, as
being the greatest thing they have to offer him: but honour
from ordinary folk and on trivial occasions he will utterly
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Equally in-
despise, for that is not what he is worth.
different will he be to dishonour from the undiscerning
crowd, knowing that it cannot justly attach to him. The
approbation of the few wise will be more to him than the
disapprobation of the many, as Antiphon was consoled for
his condemnation by the judges when Agathon approved of
his defence. For he seeks not honour for its own sake,
but accepts it as a proof of merit.
But, while the man of great soul is concerned principally
with honour, as being the greatest of external goods, he
will also show that he knows how to deal with lower goods
of fortune, displaying moderation in the use of wealth and
power, and preserving the same even temper of mind alike
in prosperity and adversity, neither overjoyed at the one
nor overgrieved at the other. For, if even honour be
a small thing in his eyes, how much more will these be so?
For power and wealth are choiceworthy for the sake of
honour; at all events you will find those who possess them
wishing to make use of them as a stepping-stone thereto.
NICOMACHUS. It must be very uncomfortable, father, to
be so great that there is nothing left to care about. Does
not the man of great soul take an interest in anything?
ARISTOTLE. My son, the right and beautiful is the one
thing that he cares about in action; and then there is the
whole world of thought open to him with the inexhaustible
interest of truth. It is because his soul is set on these high
objects that he presents the appearance of despising things.
in general. The many see that he despises the things which
they esteem, and so they deem him overweening.
THEOPHRASTUs. I fancy you may have the reality, and
not the mere appearance, of overweeningness at a much
less cost than that of perfect virtue. Nobility will do or
power or wealth. Any good is sure to be honoured by
somebody, and this honour will beget a sense of merit in
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the person to whom it is paid. Does not the man who
possesses such goods often exhibit an overweeningness that
might do credit to the greatest soul?
ARISTOTLE. Yes, but in reality it is the good man only
who is honourable, though as a matter of fact, if a man
possesses external goods as well as goods of soul he receives
more honour than if he possessed only the latter. Virtue
in purple and fine linen is not more honourable, but it is
more honoured, than virtue in rags. Odysseus as a beggar-
man was worth no less than the prince of Ithaca.
External goods however without virtue constitute no
claim to merit at all. Nor are those who are filled with
pride by them rightly to be called men of great soul. For
greatness of soul is a state which supervenes only upon
perfect virtue: there is no royal road to it through a windy
vanity. The latter may result, however, as you say, in
overweeningness and insolence. For without aid from
virtue men find it hard to wear fortune's favours gracefully.
And so, not being able to do this, and imagining themselves
superior to the rest of the world, they despise their fellow-
men, and take the liberty of acting at their own discretion.
In this contempt for opinion only do they resemble the
man of great soul. This indeed is the only point in which
they can imitate him, for his virtuous acts are beyond their
power. But the appearance of contempt presented by the
man of great soul is the result of a just estimation of things.
It is in fact the inevitable outcome of his virtue. There is
no virtue but teaches you to think lightly of what the many
irrationally regard as great. The brave man may deem
a mere mob what appears to the coward an invincible host;
the temperate man despises pleasures which the many over-
esteem; the liberal man regards gold as dross. But the
fewness of aims which characterizes the man of great soul is
made up for by the intensity with which he pursues them.
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He does not seek risk on petty occasions, nor is he fond of
exposing himself to risk, for few objects seem to him worth
it, but when some great peril has to be faced, he is there to
meet it, and when he does thus expose himself to danger
he is lavish of life, as though life were not worth having
at all.
He is ready to confer benefits, but is ashamed to receive
them. For the acceptance of benefits puts one in a position
of inferiority. If he does accept them, he will return them
with interest: for so the originator of the kindness will
owe more than he gave, and will be the recipient of
benefits.
NICOMACHUS. Have I not heard you say, father, that it
requires more real generosity sometimes to accept than to
bestow a favour?
ARISTOTLE. The man of great soul will be willing to
practise that higher generosity towards his friend, who is
a second self, but not towards strangers or ordinary
acquaintances, for his motive would be misinterpreted.
THEOPHRASTUs. I have noticed that you cannot mortify
a proud man more than by mentioning benefits that he has
received nor please him better than by recalling those he
has conferred. I suppose this proceeds from a love of
superiority?
ARISTOTLE. You have a keen eye for human nature,
Theophrastus, and I suspect you will turn out a satirist
some day as well as a philosopher. The point you mention
is well brought out by Homer. You remember how
Achilles mentions at some length the services which his
mother Thetis had rendered to Zeus, and then bids her
go and prefer a request to him on the strength of them.
THEOPHRASTUS. I do, but I remember also that she
prefaces her supplication with this very plea.
ARISTOTLE. That is true, but she has the discretion to
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confine herself to a passing allusion. In other cases the
poet allows his characters to repeat in so many words the
instructions that are given them. The same judicious
suppression of favours conferred was practised by the
Lacedaemonian ambassadors towards the Athenians, when
they were sent to request their aid against the Thebans.
They judged rightly that they would be more likely to
effect their object with a proud people like the Athenians
by recalling the services which they had already rendered
to their countrymen.
NICOMACHUS. But ought the man of great soul to desire
to be superior to every one else, father?
ARISTOTLE. He ought and he does desire to be superior
in virtue, my son. That is a form of competition which
will do the world no harm. But in anything else he will be
ready to yield the superiority to others. It is one of his
characteristics then, as I was saying, that he is zealous to
confer services, but that he asks no one for them, or, if he
does, it is with reluctance. If he is haughty, it will be to
men of wealth and position, but he will be invariably polite
towards persons of moderate station. To assert his superi-
ority over the former is a hard and dignified thing, but over
the latter it is easy: there is nothing ungenerous in meeting
pride with pride, but to display the same quality in the
presence of the humble is vulgar, like showing off one's
strength on the weak.
He will not seek honour, but let it come to him, and
therefore he will not be eager to deprive others of their pre-
eminence. And so he presents an appearance of inactivity
and dilatoriness, until there comes an occasion for great
honour or some great achievement. He is inclined to few
undertakings, but those few are great and memorable.
Such a man also must be open in his likes and dislikes,
for secrecy is a sign of fear. And he must care for truth
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more than for opinion, and speak and act openly. The
small regard he has for things makes him free of utterance.
And so he naturally adheres to truth in what he says, except
in so far as he underrates his real merits, as he will do
towards the multitude.
He is not the man who can subordinate his life to
another's, unless that other be a friend. For to do so,
except from the motive of love, is a slavish thing. This
is why all flatterers are servile, and humble people are
flatterers.
He is not prone to admiration, for nothing is great in
his eyes.
He does not bear grudges. For it is not the part of
a man of great soul to store things up in his memory,
especially when they had better be forgotten, but rather
to overlook them.
He does not talk about people-neither about himself
nor yet about his neighbour. For he does not care to be
praised himself nor to have others blamed.
THEOPHRASTUS. That is a hard hit at self-love and gossip.
I will try to confine myself to talking of things in future.
But might not a man speak of others with a view to praising
them?
ARISTOTLE. The man of great soul is not much given to
praising; and the same tendencies of mind make him refrain
from abuse, even of his enemies, unle he means to insult
them to their faces.
He is the last man to go whining and begging about the
petty things of everyday life; for this would argue a serious
interest in them.
If you look at his property, you will find that it assumes
the form of the beautiful and unprofitable rather than of
the profitable and useful. The man who is sufficient to
himself will still like to be surrounded by objects of beauty.
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But now I am getting beyond the limits of the great-souled
man himself. I have given you the picture: you can
yourselves supply the frame.
THEOPHRASTUS. I should like to hear something about
his personal appearance before you stop.
ARISTOTLE. Well, you may imagine him to yourself as
a man of slow step, of deep voice, and deliberate utterance.
It is your fussy little men who walk fast and speak in shrill
Such then is the man of great soul.
tones.
The man of little soul and the vain man, who are in
defect and excess, do not seem to be exactly bad characters,
any more than the extremes in the case of the magnificent
man. For they do no actual harm, and are mistaken rather
than vicious.
The man of little soul, though worthy of good things,
deprives himself of what he is worth. He seems to put
himself at a disadvantage from not thinking himself worthy
of good, and to be deficient in self-knowledge: for other-
wise he must have aimed at what he is worth, seeing that it
is good. I would not say however that such people are
fools, but rather diffident. Their error, however, from
whatever cause arising, does seem to exercise a deteriora-
ting influence upon their character. For they are deterred
from noble actions and pursuits by this feeling of their own
unworthiness. In the same way they are debarred from
external goods, and would be afraid to undertake the
responsibilities of fortune. Instead of availing themselves
of the flowing tide of prosperity, when it sets towards wealth
and power, they will deliberately furl their sails for fear of
hidden rocks and quicksands.
The vain we need not hesitate to call fools. They display
ignorance of themselves, and that too glaringly. For they
put their hands to high things, as though they were worthy
to cope with them, and then they get found out; also they
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dress fine, and give themselves airs, and so on, and wish
their good fortune to be manifest to all the world, and
talk about themselves, expecting by these means to attain
honour.
EUDEMUS. You have generally pronounced a judgement
as to the comparative merits of the two extreme states.
May I ask which do you consider the worse vice-littleness
of soul or vanity?
ARISTOTLE. Littleness of soul. It is at once more common
and worse.
THEOPHRASTUs. I should have thought there were more
people in the world who thought too much of themselves.
than too little.
ARISTOTLE. As I said before, we don't call every one
'vain' who thinks too much of himself. It must be done
so as to attract attention. But the commonness of littleness
of soul may be measured by the rarity of greatness.
THEOPHRASTUs. I think that's hardly a fair measure,
since the men who are not of great souls include the vain
and the sober-minded as well as the men of little souls.
ARISTOTLE. I believe I have been betrayed into an
ambiguity. When I answered Eudemus I was thinking
of the number of people in the world whose souls are
not capable of great things at all, which was certainly not.
the meaning that I was giving to the word throughout the
lecture.
THEOPHRASTUs. But would you say that littleness of soul,
in the sense of an underestimate of one's own merits, even
where those merits are great, is a worse vice than vanity?
ARISTOTLE. Yes, I think I would adhere to that state-
ment. Of course we must not allow the fact of a man's
merits being great to prejudice our judgement. The ques-
tion is, whether it is better for a man to underestimate or
overestimate his merits, whatever they are. I believe the
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world gains more than it loses by vanity.
The vain man
at all events essays high enterprises, and sometimes succeeds,
whereas the opposite character does not try at all. Again,
the vain man may fail and make himself ridiculous, but
his failure teaches him wisdom and sobriety, whereas the
opposite character simply goes on from bad to worse, since
his energies rust from inactivity.
EUDEMUS. I remember to have heard a thing which
I thought very strange from one of the disciples of Speu-
sippus. He said that Speusippus was lecturing one day on
the characteristics of foreign nations—I suppose he got his
materials from Plato-and mentioned that there were certain
barbarians-Jews I think he called them-who thought that
the most virtuous man was he who thought himself least
worthy. This state of mind, he said, they called 'humility.'
ARISTOTLE. That is indeed a strange opinion. I do not
exactly see how humility can be a virtue, when it consists
in knowing that you are not virtuous.
EUDEMUS. They seem to think that to know their own
viciousness is the only virtue they can have, just as Socrates
thought that the only wisdom was to know one's own
ignorance.
ARISTOTLE. Well, if they are right in their opinion about
themselves, they must be very depraved; and if they are
wrong-why then there can be no virtue in being mistaken.
You do not praise a man for being deceived about another
person. Why then should you praise him for being deceived
about himself? If we have a true estimate of our own
merits, we shall all be 'humble' enough to satisfy any right.
conception of virtue. The man of great soul is humble in
this sense it is the transcendence of his merits that makes
him appear overweening. If a man felt himself to be like
a god, I suppose he would not shrink from being worshipped.
LECTURE XXV
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, IV. 4-71
LOVE OF HONOUR: GENTLENESS: THE SOCIAL
VIRTUES: FRIENDLINESS: TRUTHFULNESS
GREATNESS of soul, as we have seen, deals with honour :
but as it implies transcendent merit, it necessarily deals
with honour on a transcendent scale. But honour, or the
esteem of our fellow-men, is an important factor in the
concerns of everyday life, and the right regulation of our
desire for it constitutes a civic virtue of no slight practical
importance. This virtue, we have already said, bears the
same relation to greatness of soul as liberality does to
magnificence. Neither it nor liberality are virtues of a
transcendent kind, but rather states of mind which dispose
us properly with regard to moderate or small things.
just as in the taking and giving of money there is a mean
and excess and defect, so also in the craving for honour
there is a more or less than is right and a right source
and a right way. But though the states of mind with
regard to honour are definite enough, it is not so easy to
affix names to them. What are we to call the man who
exhibits a proper appreciation of honour? The term
'ambitious,' apart from the fact that it indicates a thirst
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LOVE OF HONOUR
271
for power rather than for honour, is ambiguous. Some-
times we use it in a bad sense for one who covets honour
more than he ought and is willing to accept it from im-
proper sources, and sometimes we use it as a term of praise
to indicate the possession of a manly spirit and high aims.
The same doubtfulness of meaning is reflected in its
contrary. Sometimes we stigmatize a man as 'unambitious'
for not setting honour before himself as an incentive to
right actions; at other times we use the same term in
a laudatory sense to convey the idea of a moderate and
sober-minded disposition. This is a subject on which we
touched before in our initial sketch of the virtues. We may
trace the cause of the ambiguity to its source in the twofold
use of the expression 'fond of so and so.' This sometimes
signifies a greater fondness than marks the crowd and
sometimes a greater fondness than is right. So that to
call a man 'fond of honour,' or to give him any epithet
equivalent thereto, may naturally be taken to imply either
praise or dispraise. This namelessness of the mean state
emboldens the extremes to claim it for themselves as
though it had no rightful owner: but as there is an excess
and a defect, it is plain that there must also be a mean.
We can see that some men crave for honour too much and
that others are too little concerned about it: therefore we
may be sure that there is an exactly right way of dealing
with it, which lies somewhere between the two wrong ones.
This is the state which is deemed worthy of praise, being
a mean with regard to honour, though without a name.
But as compared with ambition, it seems a want of ambi-
tion, and as compared with the want of ambition, it seems
ambition, and so it presents in a way a double-faced
appearance of being both. The same remark might be
made of the virtues generally. But in this case the
characters in the extreme are brought into more marked
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antithesis to one another owing to the person who observes
the due mean between them having no recognised name of
his own.
On the threshold of the social virtues, specially so called,
we come across the control of the temper. The sphere of
this virtue is feelings of anger. We may call the state
of mind itself 'gentleness,' though misleading associations
might attach themselves if we applied the corresponding
adjective to the person who exhibits it. But the use of
'gentleness' itself for the perfect state with regard to anger
is not quite satisfactory, as it rather implies an inclination
towards the defect, which is again without a name. We
have here in short another of those cases in which the
analysis effected for us by language falls far short of the
most elementary requirements of thought. But the excess
may fairly be called 'passionateness,' for the feeling con-
cerned is always anger or passion, however different may be
the causes which excite it. Now he who feels this only on
the right occasions, and with the right persons, and in the
right way, and at the right time, and for the right length of
time, is the person who deserves to be praised. He will be
the 'gentle' man, if we use 'gentleness' in a good sense, to
express the mean. For by the 'gentle' man you must
understand me to mean one who is of unruffled temper,
and who does not allow himself to be carried away by
passion, but rather has passion under his own control, and
feels anger only in such a way and on such occasions
and for such a length of time as reason prescribes. In
popular estimation he errs on the side of defect, for the
gentle person is not vindictive but forgiving. But the
defect, whether it be 'a want of passion,' or 'insensibility
to anger,' or 'slavishness,' or 'stupidity,' is blamed. For
we look with contempt on the understanding of a man who
is not angry on the right occasions, and in the right way,
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and at the right time, and with the right people. It is
thought that such a person has no perception or sense
of pain, and that, as he is not angered, he is not likely
to defend himself. Now to brook being insulted, and to
allow one's relations to be so, is a slavish and degraded
thing.
As to the excess, it may occur indeed in every form; for
it is possible to be angry with the wrong persons and on
the wrong occasions, and more than one ought, and sooner
than one ought, and to remain angry for too long a time:
but from the nature of the case all these attributes are not
found united in the same person. That would be im-
possible. For evil, happily, has no principle of cohesion.
within itself: it is the good that is mixed with it which
keeps it from self-destruction; make it entire and it be-
comes intolerable. We will distinguish therefore between
various species of excess.
Though we used the name 'passionateness' for the excess
generally, it may now be convenient to confine 'passionate'
to a narrower meaning. The passionate then get into
a passion quickly, and with the wrong persons, and on
the wrong occasions, and more than they ought, but they
leave off quickly too; and this is the best point about them.
This is the case with them because they do not keep in
their anger, but disclose it by reprisals, owing to their
quickness of temper, and then have done with it.
The 'hasty' or 'touchy' are quick in excess, and fly into
a passion at everything and on every occasion; whence
their name.
The fault both of the passionate and of the hasty lies
chiefly in the direction of getting angry sooner than they
ought.
The 'sulky,' who conceal their passion, are a different
species from the foregoing. They are hard to reconcile,
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and keep up their anger for a long time. It is only when
the opportunity for retaliation has come that they cease
from it. For vengeance puts an end to anger by making
pleasure take the place of pain. So long as this is not
the case they carry their sulk about with them like an un-
digested load on the stomach. For, owing to its not being
manifest, no one even tries to soothe them; and for a man
to digest his anger within himself is a process which requires
time. Such people are the greatest nuisances both to
themselves and to their dearest friends.
The 'harsh' or 'stern' are like the sulky in carrying
anger too far, but they are more open in their avowal of
it. It is useless to talk of forgiveness and peace to them :
for they will not be reconciled without vengeance or
punishment.
Of the two extremes it is the excess rather than the
defect that is more opposed to gentleness. Two reasons
may be assigned for this. One is that it is of more frequent
occurrence, inasmuch as revenge is more natural to man
than submission to injuries. The other is that an undue
tendency to anger is fatal to the amenities of social inter-
course, whereas the want of passion is not. You may
despise the meek and submissive, but you can always get
on with them.
In a former lecture, when I was giving you some practical
hints for the attainment of the mean, I used the control of
the temper as an instance to show how impossible it is
to lay down precise rules for conduct under particular cir-
cumstances. We have had to speak vaguely and generally
of the right manner, persons, occasions, and length of time
for anger, whereas the questions which practically interest
us are definite and particular-Am I right in being angry
with this or that person, in this particular way, and for this
sort of conduct? Up to what point am I right in carrying
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my anger, and where do I begin to fall into error? These
problems, as I said, must be left to the individual to solve
for himself. They involve a multitude of details, and the
decision of them depends upon immediate perception.
A slight divergence in the direction either of excess or
defect does not attract blame. Indeed we sometimes praise
those who are in the defect by calling them 'gentle,' and
sometimes we bestow the praise of manliness on the harsh
and stern, as though they displayed a capacity for rule.
The only thing that can be asserted positively is that the
mean state is the praiseworthy one, in accordance with
which we are angry with the right persons, and on the
right occasions, and in the right way, and so on, whereas
the excesses and defects are blameworthy; and if they
occur to a small extent, they are slightly so, if to a further
extent, more so, and if to a great extent, very much so.
It is plain therefore that it is the mean state we must
adhere to.
Let so much then suffice for the states of mind connected
with anger.
We advance now to what we have called the social
virtues, which regulate a man's demeanour in his inter-
course with his fellows, in all that give-and-take of word
and act which makes up the sum of what we call daily life.
There are some men whose one object is to give pleasure.
Their praise has no moral value, for they are ready to
praise indiscriminately. They never oppose you in any-
thing, and think the object of social intercourse is achieved
if they give no pain to those whom they meet. People of
this stamp we may call over-complaisant or obsequious.
Diametrically opposed to these are the men who cross
you in everything, and do not care a snap about giving pain.
They are called 'cantankerous' and 'quarrelsome.'
It is easy to see that both the states of mind above
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described are blameworthy, and that the state which
deserves praise must be intermediate between the two,
leading a man to tolerate what he ought and as he ought,
and to show displeasure under similar conditions. No
name in particular has been assigned to this happy mean,
but, as it bears a certain resemblance to friendship, we may
call it friendliness.' For the man who attains the mean
state is just the kind of person whom we would describe as
'a kind and wise friend,' if only the element of affection
were superadded. But just herein lies the difference between
friendliness and friendship. Friendship is inspired by
affection towards a particular person; friendliness is devoid
of emotion and addresses itself to no one person more
than to another. It is not love or hate that leads the man
who possesses this virtue to accept or reject everything
with the perfect propriety with which he does: he achieves.
this as the natural result of his character. He will behave
in the same way impartially to all, whether they be strangers
or acquaintances, familiar or unfamiliar. Only he will act
in every case with a due sense of propriety. For it is not
proper to show the same sort of regard for strangers as for
intimates, nor yet to put them to pain in the same way.
One may sometimes feel called upon to put a friend to some
temporary pain or inconvenience for his own good, whereas
the same thing would be mere impertinence in the case of
a stranger. Now the friendly man will, as we have said, in
all cases observe the proprieties; but he will make it his
special aim to avoid giving pain, or even to contribute to
pleasure, so far as that may be done consistently with the
sense of right and expediency, which must be the guiding-
star of his conduct. The sphere in which he displays his
virtue being the pleasures and pains of social intercourse,
he will not shrink from giving pain when occasion demands
it. If he finds the company into which he is thrown
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indulging in pleasures that are either wrong or injurious, het
will set his face against them, and will choose to give pain
by opposing them rather than to give pleasure by a weak
compliance. Especially will this be the case, if the sub-
sequent disgrace or hurt be great as contrasted with the
immediate pain caused by opposition. And just as he will
give a little present pain to avert a greater pain in the
future, so also will he give a little present pain to secure
a great pleasure to come. This is a line of conduct which
would not occur to the obsequious man, whose one thought
is to give pleasure. But the motive of the friendly man
being a sense of right will make his conduct very different
from that of the character who is always ready to meet
your views in everything. The latter is Hail, fellow, well
met!' with every one; the former preserves a sense of
proportion in his affability and adjusts his behaviour to his
different associates, according as they are men of mark or
ordinary folk, and according to his degree of acquaintance-
ship with them, assigning to each his due and choosing
in and for itself to enhance the pleasure of the company in
which he finds himself, while careful to avoid giving pain,
but at the same time not doing this indiscriminately, but
letting himself be guided by results, if they are important—
I mean by what is right and expedient.
Such then is the character in the mean, whom we have
called 'friendly,' but to whom common language has not
assigned a name.
The excess in the case of this virtue is an exclusive
attempt to give pleasure, involving the avoidance of pain
even when wholesome and necessary. If this characteristic
proceeds from a mere desire to make oneself agreeable,
without any ulterior motive, we call the person who exhibits
it 'obsequious,' and his state of mind 'obsequiousness' or
over-complaisance'; but if there be present the motive of
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benefit to oneself in the way of money or money's worth,
then the thing assumes an uglier look, and we call the man
a flatterer.
The defect is the state of mind which has no desire to
give pleasure to others and no hesitation about giving pain.
As the mean was called 'friendliness,' this extreme, which
is the more strongly opposed to it of the two, may be
called 'enmity.' I have spoken of the person who is in
this state as cantankerous and quarrelsome, but you may
label him, if you like, 'the inimical man.'
The namelessness of the mean again leaves the extremes
in antagonism as the only apparent contraries.
The social virtues generally have for their sphere inter-
course in word and act. Social intercourse involves a
reference (1) to oneself, (2) to others. The virtue with
which we have already dealt leads to the right treatment
of others both in speech and conduct. We have now to
consider a virtue, which has more especial reference to
oneself, though of course to oneself in relation to others,
else it would not be a social virtue. It exhibits itself in
the personal pretensions which men make by what they say.
or do.
The perfect state to which I refer has no definite name
of its own, but you can gather its nature when I tell you
that its excess is boastfulness. Nevertheless it is a good
philosophical exercise to discuss such nameless states.
For we shall better understand the subject of moral
character, after we have gone into the details, and shall
feel assured that the virtues are mean states, when a
comprehensive glance has revealed to us that it is so in
every case.
In speaking of himself a man may either state the truth
or not; and, if he departs from the truth, he must either
overstate the facts or understate them. The man who lays
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claim to creditable things or qualities which do not belong
to him at all, or to a greater extent than they do, is set
down as a boaster. He who, on the other hand, denies or
extenuates the facts about himself may be called, for want
of a better name, a self-depreciator. Between these two
it is possible to steer a middle course. You may have
a man who is a straightforward kind of person, instinctively
truthful both in life and conversation, who admits the facts
about himself, without trying to make them out either
greater or less than they really are.
It is possible to behave in these various ways either with
a motive or without. But, of course, if you want to discern
a man's true disposition, you must take him at a time when
he is not concealing it for some ulterior object. As a
general rule a man speaks, acts and lives in his own natural
character; the occasions on which he assumes another
are exceptional. Now, as falsehood is in its own nature
base and blameable, while truth is noble and praiseworthy,
we may safely set down the two characters who habitually
depart from truth as deserving of censure, and the man
who instinctively seeks it as deserving of commendation.
But of the two forms of departure from truth, boastfulness
is the more to be blamed.
Let us speak of all three characters, taking the truthful
man first.
It must be understood, to begin with, that we are looking
at truthfulness in its social, rather than in its strictly moral
aspect. The moral virtue of veracity falls under the head
of justice; it has to do with compacts, and consists chiefly
in not deceiving one's neighbour to his hurt. The social
virtue of truthfulness has to do with things morally in-
different, and consists in not annoying one's companions
by an unfounded or affected way of talking about oneself.
But the lighter virtue of which we are speaking may fairly
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For if a man
be taken as an index of the graver one.
loves truth for its own sake and tells it in matters where it
makes no difference, much more will he be likely to do
so where some moral issue comes in, and where the stigma
of censure is superadded to the inherent baseness of a lie.
The kind of person then of whom we are speaking is one
who deserves our approbation. When he does deflect from
truth, it is in the direction of defect. This has an appear-
ance of better taste owing to the odiousness of exaggerating
one's own merits.
We come now to the person who exhibits this odious
fault. If it is committed without any motive, the error
is comparatively a venial one. Such a person indeed must
be pronounced a poor sort of character, else there would
not have been this delight in a lie, but he seems to be
more of a fool than a knave. This disinterested and
aimless boasting is simply part of the general habit of lying,
which has attractions for some minds.
Where there is a motive for the falsehood, we may
distinguish between the man who boasts with a view to
enhancing his reputation and the man who boasts with
a view to filling his purse. The latter is a more unseemly
character than the former, just in proportion as wealth is
a more ignoble aim than honour.
Of course it is not the mere power to boast that makes
the boaster, any more than it is the mere power to lie that
makes the liar generally, else God and the good man would
have to be called both-it is not the power, I say, to boast
that makes the boaster, but the will. Boasting is a bad
habit which is voluntarily contracted and is therefore
blameworthy in all its forms. But the will to boast may
proceed, as we have seen, either from the mere love of
falsehood or else from a desire for glory or gain. The
things about which men boast are different according to
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If their aim be
the motive by which they are actuated.
glory, they lay claim to such things as attract praise or
admiration; if it be gain, they direct their pretensions.
rather to things of interest to their neighbours, and with
regard to which they cannot easily be brought to book.
Hence the number of sham prophets and quack doctors.
Men would give a great deal to obtain a knowledge of the
future, and it is not easy to expose an impostor in this
matter, when public credulity sets down every lucky guess.
to his credit. Similarly the power to cure the diseases of
the body is of vital concern to mankind. And how easy
it is to obtain a reputation of this sort, when the effects
of the healing powers of nature are ascribed to a bread-pill,
if only it be administered with due solemnity!
The self-depreciatory, who say less than the truth, appear
more refined characters. There is no suspicion of an
interested motive about them, but they are moved by a
desire to avoid pomposity. This is apparent from the fact
that it is creditable qualities above all which they seek to
disown, as was the case with Socrates. His professions of
ignorance were regarded by his contemporaries as ironical,
and have stamped upon the word 'irony' the meaning
of dissimulation of knowledge. This is part of the mental
attribute which we are discussing, but only part, since self-
depreciation may be practised with regard to other merits
besides that of knowledge. So long as the merits are really
great, and not too apparent, there is something respectable
about the disavowal of them, but, when the same practice is
extended to small and obvious merits, it passes into affecta-
tion and humbug, serving only to excite contempt. It may
even meet the opposite extreme and amount to boastful-
ness, as in the affected austerity of the Lacedaemonian
garb, especially as worn by their imitators. For both the
excess and the extreme defect have a touch of swagger.
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But, as I have said, the moderate use of self-depreciation
with regard to things that are not too obvious and palpable
is not unpleasing in social intercourse. This leaves the
boaster to figure as the opposite of the truthful man, since
his extreme is the worse of the two.
LECTURE XXVI
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, IV. 8, 9]
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES CONTINUED: WIT: REMARKS
ON THE SOCIAL VIRTUES THE QUASI-VIRTUES-
SHAME AND INDIGNATION
We have already completed our review of life and con-
duct in their more serious aspects. But what would life be
without its amusements? And we must not leave our
virtue behind us when we indulge in moments of relaxa-
tion. We have therefore to-day to consider a quality
which prescribes the proper behaviour with regard to
diversion and amusement, what kind of things one may
say, and how one ought to say them, and also what kind of
things it is proper to listen to. But there will be a differ-
ence between speaking on such occasions and listening
to what is said. The man who attains the perfect mean
will not expect from all others the same standard of refine-
ment that he exacts from himself.
Now that there is a mean to be attained in these matters,
as well as in others, is evident from the fact that there is an
excess and defect. Just as in the matter of food some
persons are squeamish and refuse this, that, and the other,
whereas others are voracious of anything, so you will find
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some who practise abstention or total abstinence in the way
of joking, whereas others have an omnivorous appetite for
a jest. The latter are vulgar persons, who will have their
fun at all costs, and whose aim is rather to raise a laugh
than to say what is seemly and avoid giving pain to their
butt. The former are a kind of social savages, who do not
understand the intercourse of civilised beings: instead of
contributing to the mirth of the moment, they get angry
with every one who does. We all know these characters,
but I am somewhat at a loss as to what names to give to
them. Let us call your funny men, who are in excess
'buffoons,' and those who are in the defect 'clownish' and
'maladroit.' Between them is the man of polite wit,
urbane and versatile. The latter term aptly expresses the
happy turns and sallies of his genius, which are always
within the limits of good taste. To appreciate the full
beauty of a fine character, you must see it thus at play, just
as you judge best of an animal from its movements. You
do not purchase a horse until it has been put through its
paces, nor can you realise the beauty of a panther unless
you have the opportunity of watching its lithe and agile.
motions.
Of the two extremes the excess is more common than
the defect. For food for laughter abounds everywhere, and
the majority of men take more delight than they ought
in amusement and jesting, so that buffoons, who suit their
taste, sometimes pass for wits. But that there is a differ-
ence, and no slight one, is plain from what has been said.
The chief feature which distinguishes the man of polite
wit from the buffoon is the tact which marks his utterances.
It is characteristic of a man of tact to say and listen to such
things as are befitting to a good man and a gentleman.
For there are certain things that are becoming to such
a person to say and listen to in the way of amusement, and
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the playfulness of a gentleman and of an educated person
differs from that of the low and uneducated. The sort of
difference that there is between the two may be illustrated
by a comparison between the old and new comedies. In
the former the fun was gross and personal, in the latter it is
veiled by innuendo. Whether the moral tone is raised by
the change is a question that might be argued, but there is
at all events a vast difference in the way of decorum.
How then are we to define the man whose jests are in
good taste? Is it by his saying what is befitting to a
gentleman? Or by his not giving pain to the object of his
raillery? Or even by his giving pleasure? In view of the
infinite divergences of taste, the last at all events would be
a very hazy definition. But, in dealing with a thing so
nebulous and evanescent as wit, we cannot expect a hard
and fast one. Perhaps the safest thing we can say is that
the jests of such a person will give pleasure to a man of
right judgement, even if they are directed against himself.
To be able to take a joke in good part is no mean social
merit and is itself part of the virtue we are considering.
For we may say that there is a passive as well as an active
side to wit, and that the enjoyment of a joke is itself a sign
of humour. The nature of some persons attains only to
the passive side of this excellence, just as there are many
people who intensely enjoy poetry, though they would
never dream of composing it.
What a man of taste will listen to is determined largely,
though, as I told you at starting, not entirely by what he
would be ready to say himself. For a man's company
reacts upon his character. What he is ready to listen to he
will be apt to say, and baseness on the lips is never far
from baseness in act. Now as the good man will not do
everything, it follows that he will not say everything.
There are certain forms of jesting which are no better than
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abuse, and wit under one of its aspects is only cultured
insolence. From such jibes as these he will abstain as
carefully as if they were forbidden by law. Perhaps indeed
they ought to have been forbidden, only that such legis-
lation would not be easy to enforce. But the good man
and the gentleman will serve as a law to himself in such
matters. It is the use of philosophy to render law super-
fluous.
Such then is the character of him who attains the mean,
whether he be called a man of tact or a man of wit.
The buffoon, as we have said, cannot resist a joke, and
spares neither himself nor others, if only he can raise
a laugh. He says things of a sort that a man of refine-
ment would never say, and some that he would not even
listen to.
As to the social savage, he is useless for this sort of
intercourse he contributes nothing to it himself and gets
annoyed with those who do. But as relaxation and amuse-
ment are a necessity in life, we are justified in regarding
him as a nuisance to society.
Of
Now I have described to you three mean states as to the
conduct of social life, all of them having to do with inter-
course in word and act. But they differ, in that the one has
to do with truth and the other two with the agreeable.
the latter however one is concerned with the agreeable in
the way of amusement and the other in social intercourse
generally.
NICOMACHUS. Now you have come back to the order
which you gave us in the scheme, father. I wonder why
you departed from it.
ARISTOTLE. I took friendliness first as being the most
important of the three, since it penetrates into every depart-
ment of life. Wit I left to the last, like the colouring of the
eyes of a statue. The order of relative importance was
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what pressed itself on me in speaking. But I grant that it
is attended with the inconvenience of thrusting in the
virtue which deals with truth between the two which deal
with the agreeable. In a logical summary one instinctively
avoids this. But I have no superstitious regard for order,
and I hope every one will hold himself free to arrange the
virtues as best pleases him.
EUDEMUS. If I were allowed that liberty, the first use
I would make of it would be to bring gentleness more to
the front in the list of virtues. The two cardinal virtues of
courage and temperance could hardly be dislodged from
their places, but I would put the control of the temper
immediately after them, both on account of its intrinsic.
importance, and also because, like them, it deals with an
animal impulse. As the feeling which it controls is part of
spirit or passion, there is some temptation to put it next to
courage. But what you have just said is a warning against
preferring mere logical neatness to the gross importance of
a thing. What you said in a previous lecture about courage
and temperance being in a way open to the lower animals,
as well as to man, would apply, I suppose, equally to gentle-
ness, and entitle it to be ranked near them. The dog
unites in itself the two virtues of courage and gentleness—
at least some dogs do.
ARISTOTLE. I am glad you have found voice again,
Eudemus, to help me with your remarks and suggestions.
I felt almost disconcerted last time when the lecture was
allowed to close without a single remark from any of you.
EUDEMUS. I daresay the silence of the others was due
to the same cause as my own. I was waiting till we had
the account of the social virtues before us as a whole. But
your kindness emboldens me now to give vent to the
reflexions that have occurred to me. I have been thinking
since last lecture about that nameless virtue which has to
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do with the love of honour, and it has occurred to me to
doubt whether the love of honour can be considered
a virtue at all, at least on the same ideal level as the rest.
The man of great soul does not make honour his motive,
but only accepts it as his due. If a man were constantly
guided in his actions by a sense of right, there would be no
room in his mind for the love of honour.
ARISTOTLE. I am glad that you should think for yourself.
If any one should ever use the name of Aristotle to stop
your doing so, you will bear me witness that the real Aris-
totle never sought to stifle inquiry by dogma.
EUDEMUS. Then I will tell you of another point which
Theophrastus and I were talking over yesterday. In
treating of friendliness you told us that the man who over-
does it was a flatterer, if he had an interested motive, and
obsequious, or over-complaisant, if he had not. Now it
seemed to us that there was more than a difference of
motive between the obsequious man and the flatterer, and,
aided by some hints in your lecture, we ended by making
out two sets of characters. We had the friendly man
intermediate between the flatterer and the inimical man-
the flatterer ready to praise everything, the inimical man
willing to praise nothing, and the friendly man prompt
to approve of anything that deserved approval, but not
shrinking from condemning what deserved disapprobation.
THEOPHRASTUS. In fact, our friendly man stood to others
in somewhat the same relation as the truthful man to
himself.
EUDEMUS. The special sphere of these states we thought
was praise and dispraise of others. Then as to willingness
to converse with others and make oneself agreeable, we
thought that 'reserve' might be the happy mean between
obsequiousness and surliness. The obsequious man is the
humble servant of everybody, the surly man will not put
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himself out of the way for anybody and cares only to
please himself, the reserved man will be affable and
obliging under the right conditions.
ARISTOTLE. I am very glad to find that I have set you
thinking in this way: but I am not sure that you have not
been straying into over-refinement. By having two mean
states in social relations, instead of the one of friendliness,
you incur the danger either of unduly limiting their spheres
or else of running them into one another. If friendliness is
confined to praise and dispraise, its sphere is too narrow; if
you let it extend further, you will find it difficult to distin-
guish it from what you call 'reserve,' which implies being
agreeable under the right circumstances. But let us post-
pone further discussion until I have completed this part
of my subject by saying a few words about shame and
indignation, which we appended to the virtues as a sort of
supplement.
Shame and indignation resemble virtues in two respects—
(1) They are praised.
(2) They are means.
I need hardly remind you that both of these things are
characteristics of virtue.
But, on the other hand, shame and indignation are not
entitled to be called virtues for two reasons-
(1) Because they are mere feelings, not permanent
states.
(2) Because they imply badness, either in oneself or
others, and, therefore, are only hypothetically good.
So much may be said of both in common, but we will
speak now of each separately.
And first of shame.
When we say that shame is praised, this must be under-
stood with due qualifications. The feeling is not befitting
to every period of life, but only to youth. The young are
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liable to be swayed by passion, and, as many of their
passions prompt them to wrong-doing, it is well that they
should have shame to deter them from it. Therefore we
praise the young for being susceptible to shame for it is
a safeguard, though a somewhat precarious one, against
error. But the mature man should have his passions under
the control of reason, and therefore we do not praise him
for being liable to the same feeling. We think that he
should have got beyond the necessity for it.
Modesty, or a proper sense of shame, is a mean between
bashfulness and shamelessness. Of the two extremes
shamelessness, which is the defect, is a worse evil than
bashfulness, which is the excess. Bashfulness, indeed, so
long as it possesses a man, incapacitates him for action, but
it generally wears off with experience and the advance of
years. But shamelessness is an incurable evil. For if it
comes from nature, there is no remedy for it, whereas, if it
be brought on voluntarily, it is far easier to expel the blush
from the cheek than to recall it thereto.
But, though shame is praised and may be considered
a good thing in the sense that it is preventive of evil,
it does not follow that it is a virtue. It partakes more of
the nature of a passing emotion than of a settled state. At
all events it is defined by the Platonists as 'a fear of
ill-repute,' though it is doubtful whether they are quite exact
in so defining it. For to represent shame as a species of
fear would be to refer it to the spirited element in man—
I mean, of course, to the defect of it—whereas shame seems
rather to have its seat in the reason. Hence we should
have the species and the genus falling under different heads.
Perhaps we had better keep to the definition which I gave
in the course on Rhetoric, and say that shame is 'a kind of
pain or disturbance connected with evils past, present, or to
come, which appear to lead to ill-repute.'
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THEOPHRASTUs. But does not that again involve a diffi-
culty? Pain has its abode in the appetitive part of man's
nature: for I suppose that wherever pleasure is, there pain
is, and you have told us that pleasure is the object of
appetite. So that we should again have the species referred
to a different head from the genus.
ARISTOTLE. It was in view of that difficulty that I was
careful to say 'a kind of pain,' indicating that the word was
not being used in its primary or literal sense. Strictly
speaking, pleasure and pain are purely physical affections,
but the transferred meaning has become so common that
we have ceased to think of it as a metaphor.
EUDEMUS. I have a difficulty in following you when you
say that shame has its seat in the reason. You began by
saying that it was an emotion.
ARISTOTLE. True, but there are emotions and emotions.
Shame implies calculation as to the effect of one's own
conduct on the opinion of one's fellows. The lower animals
do not seem liable to it. It is because man is rational that
he is able to feel shame. But though shame involves an
element of reason, it is none the less an emotion. Like
other emotions, it takes effect on the body. When people
are ashamed, they grow red, just as when they are afraid,
they grow white. If you talk of shame as fear, you will
have to distinguish between the red fear and the white fear.
When we admitted that shame was under certain circum-
stances praiseworthy, we did so only on the ground that it
was preventive of evil. But virtue is not merely preventive
of evil, but productive of good. Therefore shame is not
a virtue. The virtuous man is as much above shame as
the shameless man is below it. Since shame is consequent
upon base deeds, the virtuous man will have nothing to do
with it, for such deeds must not be done.
THEOPHRASTUs. But are there not many things which
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are conventionally disgraceful, without being really so?
The good man, I suppose, might do these on occasions,
and be ashamed, if surprised in them by strangers. For
I suppose it would be true to say that this conventional
shame is felt chiefly before strangers and shame at what is
really wrong before friends and acquaintances.
ARISTOTLE. I think that last remark of yours is true and
shows observation. But in my opinion the good man will
not do anything to be ashamed of. He will refrain from
things that are unseemly without being actually wrong.
For instance, he will not munch nuts in the market-place.
If he does run counter to public opinion, it will be done
deliberately, and for the sake of example, and then he will
not be ashamed of himself.
For a man to claim that he is virtuous because he is
ashamed of himself when he has done wrong, whereas his
neighbour perhaps is not, is ridiculous. For shame is con-
sequent upon voluntary acts; and, if he be virtuous, he will
never voluntarily do what is base.
All that we can say is that shame is hypothetically good;
it is good if-but virtue is good without an 'if.'
EUDEMUS. But is not shamelessness admittedly bad?
And shamelessness is the opposite of this proper sense of
shame, of which you have been speaking. If shamelessness
then is bad, I suppose shame under certain circumstances
is good.
ARISTOTLE. Quite so; 'under certain circumstances'
only. That is the thing which I wish to impress upon you.
It is not good in itself. Shamelessness is bad; to do what
is wrong and then be ashamed of oneself is bad also: but
subject to the condition of wrong having been done, it is
better that a man should be ashamed of himself than that
he should not. To admit this is plainly very different
from admitting shame to be virtuous. Shame is a sign of
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vice. How then can it be a virtue? It would be more
reasonable to reckon self-control among the virtues, for that
is at least a state. But we have not done that, but have
reserved it for separate treatment subsequently, on the
ground that it involves elements of evil as well as of good-
evil in that it implies bad desires, good in that these are
kept in check. I think I have told you this once or twice
before.
NICOMACHUS. Yes, father, and I have been thinking over
it, and wondering whether there could be any virtue except
by a struggle against vice, or any good except by a contrast
with evil.
ARISTOTLE. You are certainly doing your best all of you
to make up for your silence at our last meeting. Here is
my son propounding one of the deepest of problems, just
as I thought I was nearing the end of my lecture. A very
brief answer must suffice to indicate my view of the matter.
It is certainly true that all the moral virtues involve
a reference to evil. They are the rules of conduct which
teach us to play our part worthily in this bodily life of ours,
in which evil is rife as well as good. But I have endeavoured
in my delineation of them to represent them as states
of feeling pure from any admixture of evil in the mind,
which cannot be said of self-control, and still less of shame.
Perhaps Eudemus was right also in thinking that I had
fallen below this ideal level in admitting the love of honour
in any shape as a virtue. Certainly our language seems to
bear him out in that contention, in that it provides no
name for the feeling except one that usually implies blame.
THEOPHRASTUs. It seems to me that the love of honour,
so far as it is a virtue, or a substitute for virtue, might be
described as the obverse of the proper sense of shame,
of which you have been speaking. The one inculcates
a due desire for the esteem of one's fellows; the other
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a due dislike, since I must not say fear, of their censure.
I suppose you would regard both of these feelings as
beneficial to society in default of that single-minded devotion
to the right and beautiful, which you told us was the only
moral motive.
EUDEMUS. If the sense of shame is to act thus as a second
string to one's bow in securing right conduct, perhaps you
would admit its utility beyond the period of youth. You
certainly seemed to do so in describing civil courage.
ARISTOTLE. It is a great advantage to have intelligent.
and slightly critical hearers. They keep one up to the mark
of self-consistency. But let us complete our scheme now
by saying a few words about the companion feeling of
indignation.
As shame is a safeguard against evil in oneself, so indig-
nation serves to check evil in others. It may be described
as that sense of poetic justice, which dislikes to see the
wicked or base man triumphant. It is thus a rudimentary
form of distributive justice, of which we shall have to speak
presently, just as shame is a rudimentary form of temperance.
This is why the ancients deified this feeling under the title
of the goddess Nemesis. But they were wrong in attaching
it to mere prosperity, without question of desert. Perhaps
they reasoned intuitively that there were few men who could
bear great prosperity without being debased or perverted by
it. Protagoras took a better view when he represented
shame and justice, by which no doubt he meant this feeling
of righteous indignation, as bestowed upon all men, more or
less, by Zeus, in order that they might serve as the
common bonds of society and as the foundation of the art
of statecraft. Certainly without them combination would
be impossible among beings devoid of virtue, as the mass
of men are.
To represent 'nemesis' as resentment at anything but
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undeserved success would be to confound it with its
excess, which is envy. Envy is a kind of pain at the
sight of prosperity, and is felt chiefly against equals or
those whom one takes to be such. The good man will
have his sense of justice outraged at the prosperity of the
unworthy, but the prosperity of another good man will
cause him no pain-nay, he will have reason for sympa-
thetic rejoicing, as thinking that the same may happen to
him, which has happened to his like.
The defect of the feeling in question is, strictly speaking,
the absence of any pain at undeserved prosperity. When
positive pleasure takes the place of the absence of pain, we
have the state of mind which I denominated 'delight in
evil,' arising out of a sympathy with vice. You will not,
I hope, after what I said before, confound this feeling with
the spitefulness which delights in the evils which happen
to others, even when they are undeserved. That is only
another side of the same temperament which gives rise to
envy. They are both inchoate forms of injustice.
EUDEMUS. If pain even at deserved success is thus
accompanied by pleasure at undeserved misfortune, does it
follow that the pain at undeserved success, which consti-
tutes righteous indignation, will be accompanied by pleasure
at deserved misfortune?
Aristotle. Yes, and also by the pain at undeserved
misfortune, which is commonly called ' pity,' and by pleasure
at deserved success, as I explained before. All these
feelings spring from the same desire for the proportionment
of external goods to merit.
NICOMACHUS. Is that desire reasonable, father? Why
should the presence of the higher goods constitute any
claim to the possession of the lower?
ARISTOTLE. Without seeking to justify the feeling, my
son, we may recognise its importance to society. When
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nature has any object much at heart, she seldom entrusts
it to man's reason. But to continue, or rather to conclude.
Indignation, like shame, is not a virtue, because it is.
a feeling rather than a state, and also because it is only
called for on the hypothesis of the triumph of evil. A per-
manent state either of shame at oneself or of indignation at
others would certainly not point to a perfect condition
of things.
THEOPHRASTUs. Ought we not to distinguish between
two kinds of shame, the shame that deters from evil and
the shame that follows evil and can only act as a deterrent
against a second trespass? I don't quite see why modesty
should not be considered as a permanent state of the former
sort of shame. By a 'permanent state' I understand you
to mean no more than the permanent possibility of the
recurrence of a feeling when occasion calls for it.
ARISTOTLE. Perhaps it is a state, but it is not a state of
purpose, or in any way under the control of the will, and
that is fatal to calling it a virtue.
EUDEMUS. I have been doubting in my own mind for
a long time whether this objection does not lie against the
social virtues as well as against shame and indignation. Do
they not fall rather under the head of natural endowment
than of acquired habit? They certainly seem like gifts
and graces of nature.
ARISTOTLE. Nature undoubtedly plays an important part
in them, but so she does in virtue generally. The fact
however that these social qualities can be cultivated proves
that they are to some extent under the control of the will,
and to that extent they are virtues in the full sense of the
term and satisfy our definition.
LECTURE XXVII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, V. 1]
JUSTICE IN GENERAL ITS RELATION TO VIRTUE:
A CLASSIFICATION OF CONSTITUTIONS
WE come now to the queen of virtues-Justice-to which
we must pay the homage of a longer treatment than we
have accorded to any of the rest. We shall have to deter-
mine what is its sphere of action, in what way it is a mean,
and between what things the just, which is the outcome of
justice, is a mean. In treating of justice we shall at the
same time be treating of injustice.
In discussing this subject let us follow our usual method
of starting from current conceptions. It is better to build
on other men's thoughts than to attempt to make a clean
sweep of everything and begin again on one's own account.
What is wrong in the initial assumptions can be corrected
by enlarged experience and deeper examination, but one
man is as likely to build a city by his unaided exertions as
he is to construct a philosophy. It is not the business of
the one to reject the work of the many, but rather to show,
where necessary, how their thought has been set wrong by
some warp of passion or some accident of a narrow
experience.
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If you were to ask the first man you met 'What is
justice?,' he would probably give you some such account
as this 'Justice is that sort of state in consequence of
which men are able to do what is just, and in consequence
of which they deal justly, and wish for what is just.' Simi-
larly, injustice would be described as 'a state in conse-
quence of which men act unjustly, and wish for what is
unjust.' Let us then adopt these popular conceptions as
our working basis.
NICOMACHUS. But surely, father, this is merely defining
a thing by itself, and can throw no light on the subject.
ARISTOTLE. Not quite so, my son. It is defining the
immaterial state by its realisations in act. We know just
conduct, when we see it, better than we know what justice
is in the abstract; and so something is gained by explaining
the latter by the former. Moreover, I am crediting the
popular mind with an instinctive appreciation of the idea
that it need not concern itself with any justice which fails to
realise itself in act.
You will observe also that justice is regarded as issuing
only in just conduct. This points to the difference between
a moral state, like justice, and a rational power, such as an
art or science.
Powers may be divided into irrational and rational. An
irrational power, like heat, has only one effect, namely, to
produce warmth: it cannot produce its contrary, cold.
But a rational power, like the art of the physician, can
produce sickness as well as health. The reason of this is
that it is an affair of knowledge, and the knowledge of
a thing involves the knowledge of its opposite. Thus, if
you know a triangle to be a three-sided figure, you know
also what is not a triangle; and again, if you know what is
straight, you cannot fail to know what is crooked. Now, if
justice were a power or faculty involving mere knowledge,
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it could issue in unjust conduct as easily as in just, and
the paradox of Socrates would command assent, that the
just man must also be a good thief.
Justice however is not a power, but a habit or state; and
a habit or state is so far like an irrational power that it is
not concerned with contraries. For instance, the habit of
health produces healthy results alone, but not the opposite.
If you are in a state of health, you have a healthy appetite
and walk with a healthy gait: it requires illness to produce
the opposite symptoms. And what is true of the health of
the body is true also of the health of the soul. Justice
will enable a man to act justly, and it will have that effect
alone. So far then is the just man from being a good thief
that it is impossible for him to be a thief at all.
In showing how a state does not issue in contrary effects,
I chose the instance of a bodily state, because I wanted you
to understand that what I was saying is true of all states.
But though not more true, the same thing is, if possible,
more evident in the case of moral states, which involve
feeling. The thing which makes it so peculiarly impossible
for the just man to be a thief is that he will never wish to
be a thief. Hence the significance of adding the words.
'and wish for what is just.' Mere knowledge and self-
interest might lead a man to deal justly even against his
wish, but he will not be just, unless he wishes to deal
justly.
But, while between the just man and the unjust there
yawns this gulf of feeling, yet, as I said before, in treating
of justice we shall at the same time be treating of injustice.
For though a state is not concerned with opposites, yet
a state, like other things, may be known from its opposite.
There is also another way in which a state may be known
indirectly, and that is from its material conditions. If
any one understands what the trainer calls a good habit of
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body, he will also understand a bad habit of body, and will
know the former from its conditions and them from it. Let
us say that a good habit of body consists in firmness of
flesh, then a bad habit of body will consist in flabbiness,
and that which produces firmness of flesh will be conducive
to a good habit of body. By 'firmness of flesh' I mean
that the parts are in close contact with one another, and by
'flabbiness' that they are further apart.
Justice is an ambiguous term; and when one of a pair of
contrary terms is ambiguous, it follows as a general rule
that the other is ambiguous also. I say 'as a general rule,'
because this is not always the case. Thus the word which
means 'to love' is used also in our language in the sense
of 'to kiss,' but the word 'to hate' has nothing to corre-
spond to this meaning. In the case of 'justice,' however,
the rule holds good, and the ambiguity of justice is reflected
in its contrary'injustice.' This ambiguity belongs to the
kind that is most effective and misleading. For it attaches
itself to an abstract and not to a concrete name. In the
latter case we may be said not to have a real ambiguity at
all, but rather two wholly different words, which happen to
coincide in appearance. There is no real danger of decep-
tion, so long as we have the physical form of the object to
fall back upon.
Thus the word 'key' is used both for the
collar-bone and for the instrument with which we lock
a door. But a double meaning like this is rather material
for a play upon words than a serious source of confusion of
thought. Where a pun is possible, there is little danger of
fallacy. King Philip did not expect the physician who was
attending him for a broken collar-bone to be deceived,
when he said, in reply to his rapacious requests, 'Take as
much as you want, for you have the key.'
Even in the case of abstract terms, ambiguity is not very
likely to deceive when the difference of meaning is a wide
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and clearly-marked one. For the fog which might arise
from identity of name can at once be dispelled by the
difference of definition. The trouble begins when two or
more meanings of the same word run into one another, so
that the things denoted by the names have really something
in common. This common something may be regarded
as constituting a common definition, so that it may be
maintained that there is really no equivocation at all. But
there is an equivocation, and a very serious one, if two
different wholes are mistaken for one another because of
a partial identity. Bearing in mind this danger, we will
attempt to discriminate carefully between the different
senses in which the words with which we are at present
concerned are employed.
We will begin with the word 'unjust.'
There is a sense in which the law-breaker is called
' unjust.' In this sense the term 'unjust' is equivalent to
'unrighteous' or 'wicked.'
There is also a sense in which the man who tries to get
any unfair advantage over you is called 'unjust.' Such
then being the meanings of 'unjust,' we may infer that the
'just' man is in one sense the law-abiding and law-observing
man and in another the man who is fair in his dealings.
'The just' also in the way of conduct will be the lawful and
the fair, while the unjust will be the unlawful and the
unfair.
Now, since the unjust man, in the narrower sense of the
term, strives to get an advantage over others, and to obtain
a larger share of something for himself, it is evident that he
will be concerned with goods: but still not with all goods.
With what goods then? Only with those which come
within the range of good and evil fortune. And these
are external goods. Goods of this kind have a necessary
element of selfishness about them. If A has so much gold
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But it
For one man to
or silver or land, B cannot possibly have it too.
is not so with virtue and knowledge.
possess them is a help and not a hindrance to their
possession by another. They are like light, that can be
imparted without being diminished. It is for these goods,
my son, and you others who do me the honour to attend
my teaching, that I would fain have you strive. You will
never be called unfair or unjust because you seek to have
the advantage here; and you may pray to possess these
goods without your prayers having the taint of cupidity.
As for the rest, take them, if they fall lawfully to you,
but do not go out of your way to seek them, and do not
pray for them: for you do not know whether you are
praying for good or evil. I will not go the length that
some do of saying that they are not good at all, for a thing
must be judged by its proper use. But this I do say, that
a man cannot be sure whether they are good for him.
Instead therefore of clamouring to the Gods for external
goods, as the mass of men do, our prayer should be that
things which are good in themselves may be good for
us, which they will be, if we are possessed of perfect
virtue but when it comes to a matter of choice, we should
choose what our own virtue can bear.
:
We have said that the unjust man seeks the greater
share of goods for himself, and have explained what kind
of goods. With regard to evils the case is, of course,
reversed. Therein he seeks a less share for himself. But
inasmuch as the lesser evil is, comparatively speaking,
good, we still talk of him as trying to get an advantage.
over others. In either case he displays his unfairness,
or, as I had better call it now, his inequality: for the
unequal is a generic term which embraces the two species.
of more and less.
In the other and wider sense of the term we found that
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the law-breaker was unjust and the observer of law just,
whence it is evident that all that is prescribed by law is
in a sense just. I say 'in a sense,' because legal enact-
ments do not always correspond with natural justice. In
a normal constitution, which aims at the good of all, they
do, but if the constitution be deflected from the normal
type, and based on class-interests, they do not. But what-
ever the type of constitution may be, the laws have their
say on all subjects in accordance with the particular aim
of that constitution, and whatever they prescribe passes
within that community for just. In so far as the legal
coincides with the natural, it not only passes for, but also
is just. So that in one sense of the term we give the name
'just' to all that tends to produce and preserve for the
body politic happiness and its constituents. By 'the
constituents of happiness' I mean external and bodily
goods in all their different forms, but also, and more
particularly, virtue. If you look at what law ordains, you
will find that it is conduct in accordance with the various
virtues. Not to leave the ranks or fly or throw away one's
arms-what is this but the behaviour of the brave man ?
Not to commit adultery or indulge in wanton outrage—
what is this but the behaviour of the temperate man?
Not to strike or revile another-what is this again but
the behaviour of the gentle man? In short, run through
the virtues with their contrary vices, and you will find law
busy with them all, bidding some things and forbidding
others, with more or less of success in attaining the
naturally right, according as its aim is well-advised or
hasty and ill-directed. Justice then in this sense is, when
taken at its best, coextensive with perfect virtue. But
though coextensive with it, it is not coincident in meaning.
There is a difference of respect between the two.
Perfect virtue is the best state of mind viewed in
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itself; justice is the same thing viewed in its effect upon
others.
And this is perhaps why justice is held to be the highest
of virtues, and why we have Euripides in his Melanippe the
Wise singing of the 'far-gleaming, golden face of Justice,'
and saying-
'Nor evening star nor morning star so fair.'
To the same effect is the line of Theognis which has passed
into a proverb-
'Justice contains all virtues rolled in one.'
What gives its peculiar excellence to this one virtue is the
fact that it is the exercise of perfect virtue generally. And
this exercise moreover is of the most perfect kind: for the
man who possesses justice is able to exercise virtue towards
another and not only towards himself.
There are many
who get so far as to exercise virtue towards themselves and
their own family, but who fail in their relations to outsiders.
Hence the force of the maxim of Bias, 'Government will
show the man,' or, as Sophocles has less pithily put it-
'For who can know the mind of any man,
Or e'er his thought and spirit be made clear
By exercise of law and government?'
You see the ruler as such stands in social relations to his
fellow-men.
It is this social aspect of justice also which accounts for
the fact that it alone, of all virtues, is held to be another's
good. For the just man does what is for the interest of
another, whether of the ruler or of his fellow-citizen. Now
the worst of men is undoubtedly he who acts viciously both
towards himself and towards his friends: but the best is
not he who displays virtue towards himself, but he who
does so towards his neighbour: for this is no easy matter.
Justice, then, in the sense in which we have now been
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speaking of it, is not a part of virtue, but rather the whole
of virtue, nor is its opposite, injustice, a part of vice, but
rather the whole of vice. But still there is a difference
of conception, as I explained to you, between virtue and
justice. The best state of mind, regarded simply as a state,
is virtue; regarded in its relation to others, it is justice.
NICOMACHUS. I can understand now, father, how you
came to pass over justice in your enumeration of the moral
virtues. You were treating of it all the time you were
treating of them.
ARISTOTLE. In one sense I was, but in another sense
I was not. In our next lecture it will be my business
to show you that there is a particular virtue of justice which
may be regarded as coordinate with the rest of the moral
virtues. But it required so much unravelling to get this
sense disentangled from the other, that I preferred to
preserve the whole subject for independent treatment. Its
dignity at the same time seemed to justify me in pursuing
this course.
THEOPHRASTUs. You spoke in the course of your lecture
of a 'normal constitution' and of 'a constitution deflected
from the normal type.' I should be glad of a little
enlightenment on that point, as the language is new to me.
ARISTOTLE. I am afraid I was anticipating things a little
there. It is a point which I am accustomed to explain
when we reach that part of the course which deals with
Politics proper and not with the subsidiary science of
Ethics. But, as I have had occasion to introduce the
terms you refer to, I may as well give you the explanation
of them also. You will be prepared for the subject then
when we come to deal with it later.
Any government which aims at the common good I call
a normal government; any government which aims at the
good of the rulers, as apart from that of the community,
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is despotic, and a deviation from the normal type. Now
governments may be divided into three kinds, according to
the number of the governing body. For either there must
be one ruler or more than one; and if there be more than
one, we may divide roughly into the few and the many.
Thus we have the government of the one, the government
of the few, and the government of the many. When the
governing body, whatever its number may be, aims at
the good of all, the government is of the normal type;
when it ceases to do so, and aims only at its own, it
becomes a perverted type or 'aberration.' I shall do no
more now than give you the names of the three normal
forms with their corresponding aberrations. Whatever else
there may be to say must be left to be said later.
Normal forms
(1) Kingdom.
(2) Aristocracy
(3) Commonwealth
Aberrations
Tyranny.
Oligarchy.
Democracy.
THEOPHRASTUs. Just one point more, please, before you
quit the subject. How about a government like that of
Sparta, in which the power is pretty equally distributed
between different orders in the State? There seems to
be no room for such a government in this division, either
among the normal or perverted forms.
ARISTOTLE. That is a mixed government, and ours is
a division of pure governments. We ought to have begun
by dividing governments into pure and mixed.
NICOMACHUS. What you said about prayer, father, re-
minded me of something which you told me before about
the prayer of Socrates.
ARISTOTLE. It stands recorded at the end of the Phaedrus.
I daresay Theophrastus could quote the words for us.
THEOPHRASTUs. 'Kind Pan, and all ye other gods who
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dwell in this place, grant me that I may become fair in the
inner man, and that what I have without may be such as to
help and not hinder that which is within. As to my store
of gold, may it be such as none but the temperate could
plunder from me.'
And remember
ARISTOTLE. That's it, Theophrastus.
that to quote the sentiments of Socrates is the same thing
as to record his life, which is a thing that can be said of few.
EUDEMUS. You said that it was easier to practise virtue
towards oneself than towards others. I would be glad to
know more precisely what you meant by that.
ARISTOTLE. I meant that virtues like courage and tem-
perance, with the approximate states of endurance and self-
restraint, have a more obvious bearing upon the good of
the individual than others which are more strictly social;
and therefore they are more likely to recommend themselves
on the ground of self-interest. But this point would not
bear to be pressed. For you know that I would not admit
even courage and temperance to be virtues in the true sense
until they were practised from a higher motive. I was thinking
also, when I added a reference to one's own family, of how
affection facilitates virtue. A brigand may possess all the
domestic virtues, and be regarded as a pattern husband
and parent within the bosom of his own family, though
a chance acquaintance might take a less favourable view
of his character.
THEOPHRASTUS. In what I may call your praise of justice
at the end of the discourse, you seemed to approve of the
saying that it is another's good.
ARISTOTLE. It is another's good, but this does not prevent
its being one's own good also.
THEOPHRASTUs. But do not the Sophists and the men
of the world use this very phrase as a sneer at justice.
altogether?
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ARISTOTLE. They do, and therein they display their
ignorance. If they confined their disdain indeed to the
want of spirit or want of intelligence of the man who meekly
practises a so-called 'justice,' which is merely the interest
of his ruler, there might be something in what they say.
But when they proceed to point their sarcasms against
a deliberate devotion to the good of the commonwealth,
they show that they do not understand what is the highest
thing in man regarded as a social being. It is just because
he is able to recognise the rights of others that he is.
a civilised human being instead of a dangerous beast of
prey. Justice in its developed form is the outcome of the
social union but the capacity for justice is the basis upon
which society is built.
:
JUSTICE IN
LECTURE XXVIII
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, V. 2, 3]
PARTICULAR
EVIDENCE FOR ITS
EXISTENCE: ITS SUBDIVISIONS: DISTRIBUTIVE
JUSTICE
We spoke last time of justice in the wide and general
sense of the term in which it is coextensive with virtue, and
injustice with vice. To-day we must speak of it in the
narrower sense, in which justice is itself a particular kind
of virtue and injustice a particular kind of vice. Before
however proceeding to discuss the nature of a thing, it is
well to make sure that there is such a thing in existence.
So my first business this morning must be to give you some
ground for believing that there are a justice and injustice
in a particular sense. Here then is the first presumption
I have to offer you in favour of the point-
(1) Other vices do not involve the attempt to overreach
another, nor does this attempt involve them.
When a man throws away his shield owing to cowardice,
or is led by ill-temper into abusing another, or fails to help
his friend with his purse because of his illiberality, he com-
mits injustice only in the wide and general sense that his
action is not in accordance with virtue: but there is no
attempt here to overreach one's neighbour. But, on the
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other hand, when a man does overreach his neighbour, it
may be that he is guilty of none of the other vices in
particular, still less of all in general, and yet there is no
doubt but that he is guilty of vice of some sort—our feeling
of blame settles that question-and this vice we call injustice.
It follows therefore that there is a vice of injustice, which
stands to injustice in the general sense as part to whole,
and an unjust in conduct which is part of the unjust in the
wide meaning in which it is coextensive with the unlawful.
(2) Again, other vices may be practised for the sake of
gain, and, when this is so, they cease to be those vices
without ceasing to be vice.
You may have a man who commits adultery with a view
to gain, and makes money by it, while another pays money
and incurs a loss to gratify his lust. The latter is intem-
perate, but he is not grasping; the former is vicious in some
sort, but he is not intemperate. What he is guilty of there-
fore is the particular vice of injustice which is prompted by
the love of gain.
(3) Further, in all other wrong acts there is always
a distinct reference possible to some particular form of
vice. If a man has committed adultery, we refer his act
to intemperance; if he has deserted his comrade in battle,
we refer it to cowardice; if he has struck another, we refer
it to passionateness: but if he has cheated another, we seem
to have nothing to which we can refer his act except the
general head of injustice. It is evident then that besides
the generic form of injustice there is also a specific form
containing just those wrong acts proceeding from the love
of gain, which find no place under the other kinds of vice.
The genus and the species both go under the same name,
because the definition of each involves the same generic
qualities. For both display their force in relation to another,
but the species has to do with honour or property or personal
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safety or whatever common name would embrace all these,
and its motive is the pleasure that is derived from gain,
whereas the genus is concerned with the whole sphere
of vice.
These considerations warrant us in assuming that there
is such a thing as justice in a particular sense, in which
it is coordinate with the other virtues, so that we may
go on now to inquire into its nature. We distinguished
the unjust, if you remember, into the unlawful and the
unfair, and the just into the lawful and the fair. Corre-
sponding with the unlawful is that wide sense of injustice
which was treated of in our last lecture. But just as
the unfair as a part is comprised in the unlawful as
a whole (for the unfair is always unlawful, but there are
other kinds of the unlawful as well as the unfair), so now
we find that there is an unjust and an injustice which stand
to those previously dealt with in the relation of part to
whole; and in like manner also a justice. It is to justice
and injustice in this sense that we must now confine our
attention, and we may dismiss from our minds the meaning
of the terms in which the one may be defined as 'the
employment of virtue generally towards another,' and the
other as the employment of vice generally towards
another.' The conduct also which is denominated just
or unjust in the wide sense of the terms need give us
no further trouble. For the acts which result from virtue
as a whole coincide pretty fairly with the prescriptions
of law: since law, as we have seen already, commands us
to exhibit every virtue in our lives, and forbids each vice.
And again the causes which produce virtue as a whole are
to be found in the enactments of law which relate to the
education of a man as a citizen. Whether the education
of the individual as such, which makes him a good man
in the absolute sense, and not merely a good citizen,
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belongs also to the science of statecraft, or requires some
more interior and recondite process, is a question which
may be reserved for future discussion. But, as I said,
we must now dismiss from our minds the wide sense
of justice altogether, and consider it only as a particular
virtue.
Society may be considered, metaphorically of course, as
a joint-stock company, consisting of diverse individuals,
differing in all sorts of respects, some contributing as many
as a hundred shares, some only one. Nevertheless, ideally
considered, it is an equilibrium: no one has more than
he ought.
Now we may regard each individual-
(1) in relation to the whole ;
(2) in relation to every other individual.
If, in relation to the whole, we ask 'What is his
dividend?' the best answer that can be given is this-
'As A's share of work: B's :: A's dividend : B's.'
The dividend may be payable in honour or in money, or
in whatever else has to be divided among the members
of the commonwealth, and in which therefore it is possible
for each to obtain a fair or an unfair share. To determine
this proportion is the task of Distributive Justice, which
necessarily takes account of the worth of the individual.
C
If again, regarding individuals in relation to one another,
we ask 'How are we to preserve their relative proportions ? '
the answer is By righting the balance when it has been
set wrong.' This is the task of Corrective Justice, which
takes no account of the worth of the individual, but
looks only at the extent to which he has disturbed the
equilibrium.
You see then that Justice is divided into the two main
heads of Distributive and Corrective.
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Corrective justice has to do, as I have said, with the
relations into which individuals are brought to one another
in the social union. Now individuals are brought into
relation to one another in all sorts of ways, which, for the
sake of a comprehensive term, we will call 'dealings.'
Some of these dealings are voluntary and some involuntary,
and corrective justice may be applied to either, so that
you may consider that there are two kinds, corresponding
roughly to civil and criminal procedure in the law courts.
As instances of voluntary dealings you may take selling,
buying, money-lending, bail, letting, deposit, hiring. We
call these 'voluntary,' because they are entered into with
the consent of both parties.
The involuntary, to which the consent of one of the two
parties is lacking, may be further subdivided into 'fraudu-
lent,' as theft, adultery, witchcraft, procuring, enticement.
of slaves, killing by stealth, perjury; and 'violent,' as
outrage, imprisonment, murder, rape, mutilation, abuse,
insult.
Now, before I plunge further into a dissertation which
promises to be somewhat abstract, I think I will give both
you and myself a little breathing-space. Meanwhile some
of you had better disburden yourselves of the questions,
and I daresay objections, with which I am sure you are
bursting.
THEOPHRASTUS. Is there any real difference between the
first and the third argument by which you established the
existence of particular justice? In the first you seemed
to be saying-
Overreaching is not referable to any other vice.
.. It must be assigned to injustice.
In the third-
Dishonest gain is not referable to any other vice.
.. It must be assigned to injustice.
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Is there a difference between 'overreaching' and 'dis-
honest gain'?
ARISTOTLE. Candidly, there is no very profound difference
between the two. I seem to have dressed up a voter to
go twice to the poll, which comes under the head of
'fraudulent dealing.' You may run the two arguments into
one, if you like.
THEOPHRASTUS. Another point that I want to know
about is whether dishonest gain might not be referred
to illiberality, as a taking from wrong sources. We have
the highwayman and the brigand, who are not celebrated
for justice, figuring in our list of illiberal characters.
ARISTOTLE. I thought that point would not escape you.
My own mind misgave me about it as I was speaking.
But I would rather, if need be, explain or retract some-
thing of what I said before than give up what I am
maintaining now. The highwayman and the brigand
resemble the illiberal in taking from wrong sources. But
they are illiberal and something more. For perhaps we
ought to have made illiberality pure and simple stop short
of crime.
THEOPHRASTUS. As no one else seems to have a question
forthcoming, I will venture to put another. Both in the
last lecture and in this you have been speaking of law
as something that penetrates into every department of life
and prescribes all conduct. Now here in Athens people
are apt to pride themselves on not having their actions too
much hampered by law. I know that the case is different
in Sparta. But is there anywhere a law which has the all-
pervading moral force which you assign to it?
ARISTOTLE. If there is not, there ought to be. I confess
that I am in the habit of idealising law as the utterance
of reason apart from passion. But in thinking of the
universality of law you must not confine your ideas to
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JUSTICE IN PARTICULAR
and
written mandates. Law, after all, is only custom crystal-
lized. There are a great many things ordained
forbidden by custom quite as effectively as if they were
inscribed in the statute-book.
Now let us continue the thread of our discourse, and
treat of particular justice in its specific forms, of which
I have already given you a brief sketch.
We described the unjust man as unfair or unequal, and
what is true of the unjust character is true also of the
unjust in conduct. Now the unequal may be either too
much or too little, and any course of action which admits
of too much and too little admits also of a mean. It is
evident then that the unequal admits of a mean, and this
mean is the equal. We have proved then that, if the
unjust is unequal, it follows that the just is equal.
NICOMACHUS. Does not that follow without proof, father?
ARISTOTLE. Do you mean as an immediate inference in
this way-
The unjust is unequal.
.. The just is equal.
NICOMACHUS. Yes, that conclusion seems inevitable.
ARISTOTLE. And yet it does not follow at all, any more
than if I were to lay down that
it would follow that
The ugly is hard,
The beautiful is easy.
For the beautiful may be hard too. And, generally, you
are never warranted in drawing an inference in this shape—
All not-A is not-B.
... All A is B.
The conclusion may be true, as in this case we have shown
that it is, but it does not follow from the premiss. Logically
then we were bound to prove our point, but practically
proof was quite superfluous. I mean that everybody
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admits the just to be equal: the only thing they ever
dispute about is the kind of equality involved in justice.
THEOPHRASTUs. I do not wish to dispute the conclusion,
but for the life of me I cannot see how we have proved
it. You told us that the equal was a mean of the unequal,
and from this you drew the conclusion that the just was
equal. Do we not need the further assumption that the
just is a mean of the unjust or unequal?
ARISTOTLE. Certainly we do. The proposition was
present to my mind, and so I took for granted that it
was present to yours. This is what renders the proof of
the obvious so difficult as a logical exercise. The mind
is impatient of links which it is in the habit of slurring
over. Fully expressed, the reasoning which I wished to
convey to you runs thus---
The equal is a mean of the unequal.
But the just is this mean of the unequal.
.. The just is equal.
EUDEMUS. Would it not be better to prove that the just
is a mean from the idea of its equality than to prove its
equality from the assumption that it is a mean?
ARISTOTLE. Perhaps so: but as we began with the latter,
we will stick to it. Plainly we cannot prove both without
a regular see-saw.
Now that we have tided over that difficulty, let us go on.
We have proved that the just is equal. But to say that
it is equal is to say that it involves a relation; for equality
is a relation which implies two things at least. Not only
then is the just a mean, as we assume it to be, and equal,
as we prove it, but it is also relative. It is beginning
therefore to seem rather complex. As a mean it must be
a mean between some things. These things are many,
but may be summed up under the two heads of too much
and too little. Then, as being equal, it implies two things.
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JUSTICE IN PARTICULAR
at the least. And further, as being just, it must be just for
some persons. Let us look at it however in its simplest
form, taking account only of what cannot be neglected.
The idea of the just, then, at the very least, involves four
terms, two for the persons and two for the things. And
whatever amount of equality or inequality there is between
the persons, there must be the same between the things,
and vice versa. If the persons are not equal, neither must
the things be, or else there will be no justice; indeed the
allotment of unequal shares to equals or of equal shares
to unequals is the source of all quarrelling and fighting.
That it is not mere equality, but proportional equality,
that is involved in justice, is further evident from the notion
of 'worth.' People are agreed that goods should be distributed
according to worth, and that, if A is worth twice as much
as B, he should receive twice as much as B. But what
the standard of worth ought to be is the point upon which
they differ. The democrats maintain it is freedom, and
that all free citizens ought to share alike. Hence the
important part that the ballot plays in a democratical state,
as that is a recognition of the essential equality of the
individuals constituting it, in so far, that is, as they are
free. The oligarchs, on the other hand, think that wealth
is the standard of worth, and are in favour of a property-
qualification. Others go in for a standard of birth, and
uphold the hereditary principle; while the aristocrats, in
the proper sense of the term, think that the real standard
is virtue. But however different their views may be, they
are all agreed in recognising that there must be some
standard, and therefore that the equality involved in justice
is proportional. If Achilles is worth twice as much as Ajax,
whether on the score of wealth, nobility, or virtue, then the
honour assigned to Achilles ought to be twice as great as
that assigned to Ajax. Suppose we represent Achilles by
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100 and his honour by 10, then Ajax will stand for 50
and his honour for 5; so that the proportion between the
persons and their shares in the distribution will run thus—
As 100 50 :: 10 : 5.
Here we have a real equality, though you might not at
first sight think it. For what I have just given you
amounts to this-
2 = 2.
This is what is meant by saying that proportion is an
equality of ratios.
EUDEMUS. Pardon my interrupting you, master. But
does not the democrat deny that there is any proportion
at all about justice?
ARISTOTLE. No, he only alters the terms by fixing the
standard at freedom, which is a thing that does not admit
of degrees. Considering Ajax, because he is as free as
Achilles, to be his equal in all respects, he reads the pro-
portion thus-
As 100 100 :: 10: 10,
which amounts to saying—
I = I.
Therefore, even though we deny the democrat's standard,
let us still claim him as an adherent of the great principle
of proportional equality, which is not only the bond of
cohesion among states, but is also that which serves to
keep the stars in their courses.
THEOPHRASTUs. The thing seems delightfully simple and
easy when you express it in abstract numbers in which
the units are all equal. But justice would really have to
do with numerable things-concrete numbers, if I may so
call them-where the units themselves may vary. Would
there not be difficulties of detail with regard to these?
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JUSTICE IN PARTICULAR
Suppose that in the distribution of spoil Achilles were to
be honoured with a hundred lean kine and Ajax with fifty
fat ones, while it was still recognised that the services of
the former to the Greeks were twice as great as those
of Ajax, might not Achilles have reason to sulk in spite
of the numerical justice that was done to him? And then
again how is any one to know that one man is worth twice
as much as another?
ARISTOTLE. Far be it from me to deny that the problem
is a hard one. So hard indeed is it that none can solve
it fully but God, who alone can gauge the true worth of
any man. But it is something to point out what the
problem is. At present we are concerned only with the
broad general principle, which is roughly applicable to
numerable things as well as to numbers proper. Difficulties
of detail can sometimes be got over by a change in the
units, or things may be left to right themselves on the
average. If Achilles knew that there was no design to give
him the lean kine, he would not sulk, but would hope
for better luck next time.
But to proceed.
Proportion is either continuous or discrete.
Of discrete proportion we have had examples already,
and it is manifest that it involves four terms.
But con-
tinuous proportion really does so too. Here is an instance
of what I mean by continuous proportion—
84: 2.
There are four terms here, because the middle one is
used twice. We may express the same meaning in this
way-
As 8:44: 2.
If the terms of our proportion are lines, there may be
only three visible to the eye, while there are four present to
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the mind. Thus in a right-angled triangle if a perpendicular
be drawn from the right angle to the base, it could be shown
that this perpendicular is a mean proportional between

A
D
B
the segments of the base. The proportion here would be
continuous, but there would really be four terms-
As AB: BD :: BD : BC.
Justice then resembles any other proportion in the fact of
having four terms, the ratio between the persons being
the same as that between the things.
Let A and B be two persons, C and D two things. Then
As A B :: C: D.
:
Now mathematicians will tell you that you may take the
terms alternately, thus
As A: C:: B: D.
And also that if you add together the two terms in each
ratio, you will get a ratio which is the same as the original
one. We may therefore say that
As A B A+C:B+D,
:
or, translating it into the concrete-
As Achilles Ajax :: Achilles honoured : Ajax honoured.
This is the kind of composition which is effected by the
distribution, and when the terms are thus put together, it
is justly performed. The composition then of A with C
and of B with D is what constitutes the just in distribution,
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JUSTICE IN PARTICULAR
and this just is a mean, being proportional, whereas the
unjust is what violates proportion.
The proportion of which we have been speaking is what
mathematicians call 'geometrical proportion.' It is only
in this kind that the composition can be effected, in which
the whole stands to the whole as the terms of either of
the original ratios stood to one another.
NICOMACHUS. What other kind of proportion is there,
father, besides geometrical proportion?
ARISTOTLE. There is also what is called 'arithmetical
proportion,' in which B exceeds A by as much as D exceeds
C. Thus 4 bears to 6 the same arithmetical relation
that 10 bears to 12. The larger term however may come
first, so that we ought rather to say 'in which B is as
much larger or smaller than A as D is larger or smaller
than C Any pairs of numbers, however remote, may be
said to be in arithmetical proportion to one another, when
the terms thus differ from one another by the same amount.
If you fill up the gap between them by supplying means,
you then get such a series as that of which we spoke before
under the name of an 'arithmetical progression.' In the
instance which I selected there is only one mean to be
supplied, namely 8, and the series runs thus-
4, 6, 8, 10, 12, &c.
NICOMACHUS. Is the proportion required by justice con-
tinuous or discrete ?
ARISTOTLE. Discrete of course. How could you have
one term standing for a person and for a thing?
As Achilles Ajax :: the honour of one: the honour of
the other.
It would be impossible to have one and the same term
standing for Ajax and for the honour of Achilles.
NICOMACHUs. Of course it would. But I did not see the
thing so plainly when I put the question.
Y
Uor M
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Aristotle. Well, I hope you all see plainly enough now
what is meant by saying that the just in distribution is that
which observes proportion and the unjust that which vio-
lates it. If the composition of which we have spoken be
not rightly effected, one of the two wholes is made larger
than it ought to be, and the other smaller, so that the
mean, which proportion would have given, is lost sight of.
That this is true in fact as well as in theory is borne out
by the testimony of language. For the man who commits
injustice is said to take advantage of' another, or to
aggrandise ' himself at another's expense. As I explained
before, we may use the same expressions, even when he
seeks to have less of an evil. There is no essential differ-
ence between doing that and seeking to have more of
a good. For the lesser evil is more choiceworthy than the
greater, and all that is choiceworthy is in a way good, so
that the more choiceworthy is the greater good.
Let so much then suffice for Distributive Justice.
LECTURE XXIX
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, V. 4, 5, §§ 1-16]
CORRECTIVE JUSTICE: CRITICISM OF THE IDEA of
RETALIATION: PROPORTIONAL RECIPROCITY THE
BOND OF UNION IN STATES:
MONEY
FUNCTION OF
THE kind of justice of which we have to speak to-day is
Corrective Justice, which finds its sphere in the dealings
of man with man, whether of the voluntary or of the
involuntary kind. This is a distinct species altogether from
the Distributive Justice of which we treated in our last
lecture.
The distributively just, as we saw, was concerned with
the apportionment of some common stock among the mem-
bers of a society. It took into account the worth of the
members, and so proceeded on the principle of geometrical
proportion. If the contributions of one man to the common
fund were greater than those of another, it was its business
to see that his receipts were greater in the same proportion.
Conversely the unjust, which was the opposite of this, was
that which violated proportion.
Now we must abandon this idea of geometrical equality
and adopt in its stead the more ordinary notion of arith-
metical equality. It will be a question of quantity now and
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not of quality. For the just in dealings is something equal,
and the unjust something unequal, but not according to
geometrical, but according to arithmetical proportion.
What I mean is this. The moral character of the disturber
of the equilibrium does not enter into the problem of dis-
tributive justice, which looks only at the amount of the
disturbance. In the eye of the law it makes no difference
whether it is a philanthropist who has robbed a scamp of
his purse or a scamp who has robbed a philanthropist, nor
do we take into account the moral character of the adulterer
in assessing the damages for the injured husband. All that
the law looks to is the difference resulting from the injury.
It treats the persons as equal, if the one commits and the
other suffers an injury, or if the one inflicts and the other
has received a hurt.
Of course I do not mean that all persons are equal,
because I say that the law treats them as being so. The
inequalities among human beings are greater than those
among any other species of animal: nevertheless, they are
all equal before the law. Why? Because the law recog-
nises the equal right of every one to enjoy undisturbed that
share of good, whether in the way of wealth, enjoyment, or
reputation, which has fallen to his lot, justly it is assumed,
through the agencies of distribution.
The law says to the philanthropist and the scamp, 'I will
regard you both as x.' We have then an equation, or
rather an identity-
x = x.
Then, if the philanthropist beats or kills the scamp, or
vice versa, we may consider that the philanthropist or the
scamp, whichever it may be, has scored one. So that
the equation is now disturbed. We have x + 1 on one side
as against x I on the other. At this point the law steps.
in to correct the inequality. It transfers the stolen purse
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CORRECTIVE JUSTICE
from the pocket of the thief to that of the original owner ;
it gives the victim of an assault the satisfaction of seeing
punishment inflicted on the aggressor; in the case of
murder it does away with the murderer, and so brings
about the only equality it can, giving to the equation the
value-
0 = 0.
In all these cases we may talk of the 'gain' to the
injurer and the 'loss' to the injured, though the terms may
not be very appropriate in the case of physical injury. Still,
even in these cases we may see a certain fitness in the
extended use of the terms, if we look at the assessment of
damages. The punishment or fine inflicted on the injurer
is regularly spoken of in our language as his 'loss,' and is
sometimes payable in money; and, when this is the case,
the satisfaction to the injured person can quite strictly be
called his gain. The loss and gain then on one side of the
equation may be regarded as balancing a gain and loss.
on the other. We will not hesitate therefore to speak of
the two extremes, the too much of the injurer and the too
little of the injured, as their 'gain' and 'loss' respectively.
They are, of course, too much and too little in an inverse
way as regards good and evil-too much of good or too
little of evil is gain; too much of evil or too little of good
is loss. Between these two extremes, which are represented
by x+1 and x-1, we found that the equal, x, was a mean.
We may say then that the just in the way of rectification is
a mean between loss and gain.
Also, when people dispute about their rights they have
recourse to the judge. But to have recourse to the judge is
to seek for the just. For the idea of a judge is that he
is the just incarnate. And they seek the judge as a mean--
some people indeed call judges 'mediators,' implying that,
if they obtain the mean, they will meet with just treatment.
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The just then must be a mean, since the judge, who
embodies it, is.
Since the mean is also the equal, it is the business of the
judge to restore equality. Let me illustrate my meaning to
the eye by means of a line.
B
Let the line AB be divided into two unequal parts
at D, of which AD is the greater. The man who
has got AD has too much, and the man who has
been left with only BD has too little. The judge
therefore bisects the line at C, and taking away
from AD the amount by which it exceeds the half,
namely CD, adds it to BD. Then BD+ CD make
up one half the line, of which AC, which is all that
is now left to the aggressor, is the other half. The
two parties are now said to have their rights, because the
line is bisected between them.
A
THEOPHRASTUS. Perhaps that's why the just is so-called,
because it is just half.
ARISTOTLE. Well, if you like; I am not great at ety-
mology. You may also regard the judge as an adjuster or
equaliser. He finds, as I say, the equal, which is a mean
between too much and too little according to arithmetical
proportion. For if of two equals some quantity be taken
from the one and added to the other, the second exceeds
the first by two such quantities. For if it had been taken
from the one without being added to the other, the second
would have exceeded the first only by one such quantity.
But, as it is, the second exceeds the mean by one, and the
mean exceeds the thing subtracted from by one also. Now
this is the essence of arithmetical proportion, in which the
greater term exceeds the mean by the same amount whereby
the mean exceeds the less. The mean therefore serves as
a measure by which we can know how much to take from
the greater and to add to the less.
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CORRECTIVE JUSTICE
JUST
UNJUST
A B C A B C
Let us suppose that we have three equal lines, AA,
BB', CC', of which AA' is divided at the point E and CC'
at the point F, so that EA' is equal to FC'. Now suppose
that EA' be taken from AA', and CC' be produced to D,
so that C'D shall be equal to EA'
or FC'. We have now the state of
things which we call unjust, because
the two extremes AE and CD are
unequal. CD, which is the greater
extreme, exceeds AE, which is the
less, by FC' plus C'D, or, in other
words, by twice C'D, and therefore
exceeds the mean, or equal, BB',
by C'D. Now, if we wish to
restore equality, we can do so by measuring the mean BB'
against the two extremes, taking away from the greater that
by which it exceeds the mean, and adding to the less that
by which the mean exceeds it. In this way we get back to
the original state of equilibrium, which was a type of justice.
E-
A' B' C'
E
B'
D
EUDEMUS. I can understand the terms 'loss' and 'gain'
much better as applied to voluntary than to involuntary
dealings.
ARISTOTLE. No doubt you can, since that is their primary
and literal sense, and the other only a metaphorical one.
When two persons come out of some voluntary transaction,
such as buying or selling, the one with more than he had
prior to entering into it and the other with less, we then
speak of the one's gain and the other's loss in the strict
sense of the terms. But when, on the other hand, they have
each neither more nor less, but precisely the same value as
before they dealt with one another, then we say that there is
neither loss nor gain. You may compare this state to the
mean between gain and loss in the transferred, and, as
I admitted, slightly strained sense, in which we have been
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using the terms. Gain, however, in voluntary transactions.
is not contrary to law, and so does not call for correction by
law. In some states the law will not even interfere in the
case of a breach of contract. The theory in such cases
is that a transaction which was entered into on the basis of
confidence between man and man had better be concluded
on the same terms, and that the general withdrawal of
confidence from the delinquent will prove a more effective,
as well as more natural, penalty than any which could be
inflicted by a judge.
EUDEMUS. I daresay if that theory were generally ac-
cepted, it would lead to a higher standard of honesty.
ARISTOTLE. It would be well if men could adopt some
view which would put an end to gain altogether, even in
the literal sense. For though in that sense it is not con-
trary to law, it is still contrary to justice. To try and get
the better of your neighbour in a bargain is a mean act, to
which a good man would not stoop. It does no good
to society to transfer so much wealth from one of its
members to another. This, however, is a sphere in which
the good man acts as a law to himself. The gain which
law undertakes to rectify is that which results from in-
voluntary dealings, and the just which we have been con-
sidering is a mean between gain and loss of this kind, so
that the two parties are in the same position relatively to
one another before and after their dealing. All that has
been said about it however can be applied by yourselves.
to matters in which the law grants impunity.
Now that we have arrived at our own conception of what
constitutes the just, we are in a position to criticize the views
of others.
Well, there is one view with which you are all of you well
acquainted. It is one which is venerable for its antiquity.
The Pythagoreans held that you should suffer what you do.
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Retaliation, or the law of tit for tat, was their idea of justice,
and their motto was 'an eye for an eye, and a tooth for
a tooth.' Now, Theophrastus, do you think that theory is
satisfactory?
THEOPHRASTUs. Not if it were my one eye or my last
tooth that somebody knocked out. In that case I should
not think that equality had been restored until every tooth
had been drawn from his head or both his eyes put out.
ARISTOTLE. You appear to hold as strong an opinion on
the subject as the one-eyed Locrian did.
THEOPHRASTUS. To what are you referring?
ARISTOTLE. Why, you know that among the Locrians of
the West over-legislation was discouraged. They were con-
tent with the code of their great lawgiver Zaleucus. If any
one wished to propose a change in the law, he had to do so
with a halter round his neck. If the law was approved—
well and good; if not-the rope was tightened. Now one
of their laws was that, if a man put out another's eye, he
should have his own eye put out. Well, there was a man
who had only one eye, and whose enemy had threatened to
put that out. The one-eyed man thought that life would
not be worth having without his cherished eye, and so
plucked up courage to propose an alteration in the law, to
the effect that whosoever should put out the eye of a one-
eyed man should have both his own eyes put out. This
measure was carried. It was the only bit of legislation that
took place at Locri for two centuries.
EUDEMUS. But I suppose that the aim of the law was to
effect a more complete retaliation.
ARISTOTLE. No doubt it was. Still the instance serves to
show that we cannot accept the Pythagorean formula without
some qualification.
NICOMACHUS. I should have thought, father, that if a man
deliberately deprives another of sight and so diminishes the
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value of life to him, he ought to be made to suffer even more
pain than he has inflicted, for having been the aggressor.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, there is the question of aggression to be
considered and also that of deliberation and purpose, of all
of which a mere theory of retaliation takes no account.
And yet this is what people claim as the justice of Rhada-
manthys-
'That he who does should suffer what he does,
Is just and right.'
So says Hesiod. But the idea will not stand examination.
Try it for yourselves by applying it first to distributive and
then to corrective justice. If a man has contributed to the
welfare of the state by slaying a tyrant, how does the state
apportion his reward?
THEOPHRASTUs. It would hardly seek to repay him in
kind by relieving him, say, of his wife. Most probably it
would erect a statue to him.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, and so pay him in proportionate honour.
Now take the case of corrective justice. If a man has
committed adultery with his neighbour's wife, the remedy
is not that his neighbour should commit adultery with his.
No, the law imposes some penalty, different in kind, but
judged to be proportionate to the wrong. Under the laws
of Zaleucus, to whom I have just referred, the penalty was
that the adulterer's eyes should be put out. Or again,
suppose a magistrate has struck a civilian, would it be just
that he should be struck back? And, on the other hand,
if a civilian has struck a magistrate, would it be just that he
should merely suffer the same in return?
THEOPHRASTUs. Did you not say that corrective justice
took no account of personal merit?
Aristotle. No more it does. But here a new element
has been introduced into the problem. It is no longer
a question between individuals who are on the same footing
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CORRECTIVE JUSTICE
for legal purposes, however unequal their merits in other
respects may be. The majesty of the state has been out-
raged in the person of the magistrate, and requires to be
vindicated by an exemplary punishment. To strike a
magistrate is to strike a blow at the foundations of society.
The citizen who is not in office may be the equal of the
magistrate in his private capacity: but as against the magis-
trate in his official capacity he has no more equal rights
than a child has against a parent, or a slave against a free-
man.
We have shown then the unsatisfactoriness of the attempt
to identify justice with mere retaliation. But with a necessary
amendment we may recognise the truth in it, which generally
underlies a widely-accepted doctrine. If we say that pro-
portional reciprocity aptly expresses the justice which should
underlie commercial and industrial relations, we shall not
be far wrong. Indeed we may go further, and say that
proportional reciprocity is the bond of union and perma-
nence in a state.
By 'reciprocity' I mean the requital both of evil for evil
and of good for good. If the citizens are shut out from any
legal redress for injuries, the state of things under which
they live is a mere tyranny. If, on the other hand, they are
debarred from a return of benefits, the conditions of healthy
activity are equally absent. This is why a temple or statue
of the Graces is put somewhere well in view in a city,
in order that men may not neglect the charities of life.
Here in Athens, as you know, before the entrance to the
Acropolis, there are statues of the three Graces, draped, as
the antique manner of representing them was. They have
a peculiar interest for us, as they are by the hand of Socrates.
There are three of them, because when a benefit has been
bestowed, it should be returned, and then the receiver
should begin anew so the circle of kindness returns into
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
itself, and is ready to start on a fresh course.
the three are represented as linked together.
This is why
In commercial relations, of which we had begun to speak,
proportional reciprocity is secured by diametrical compo-
sition.
NICOMACHUS. That sounds very mysterious, father.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, but it is quite a simple matter. Suppose
that we have four terms, A, B, C, D—A for a mason, B for
a shoemaker, C for a house, D for shoes, and suppose that
we arrange them so as to form the four corners of a square,
putting each workman's product under him, thus-
Mason
A
Shoemaker
B

C
House
D
Shões
It is plain that, if the mason and the shoemaker are to
benefit one another, the mason will not go to the shoemaker
for a house nor the shoemaker to the mason for shoes.
What the mason wants is shoes, and what the shoemaker
wants is shelter. By drawing the diagonals AD, BC, we
will indicate that the result of their relations must be to give
each the product of the other. But the question has yet to
be settled-In what proportion?
We will not assume any difference of worth between the
shoemaker and the mason. Let each count for one, and no
one for more than one, so that we can say-
As mason shoemaker :: shoemaker : mason,
:
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and so on in the case of all other workmen. But it by no
means follows that-
As house shoe :: shoe : house.
The unit of one workman may be of much greater value
than the unit of another. We have therefore by some means
to determine the problem-How many shoes are equal to
one house? Let us suppose for the moment that this is done,
and let D stand for this particular number of shoes. Now
the two producers are in a position to effect a fair exchange.
We can go round the square and say—
As A B :: D: C.
:
Then, by alternation
As A : D :: B : C.
Lastly, by composition
As A+D A :: B+C : B.
:
That is to say, the mason with the shoes and the shoemaker
with the house part from one another content with their
bargain, because neither of them has gained an advantage
over the other. This is what I meant by saying that com-
mercial justice is secured by diametrical composition.
Our theorem of course applies to all the arts alike. They
depend for their very existence on production and consump-
tion being equal to one another both in quantity and in
quality. If the loss to the workman in the way of time,
trouble, and energy expended upon his work were not
compensated by a corresponding gain in the supply of his
own needs, society could not hold together. For the life
of the state, as of the man, depends upon the action and
reaction of its parts. This is why a state or any association
must consist of dissimilar parts. Two doctors cannot supply
each other's needs, but a doctor and a farmer can. The
farmer produces food and the doctor's skill maintains or
restores health. If the farmer is ill, he will be glad to
exchange food for the prospect of health, and so the doctor's
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skill becomes a marketable commodity. But the question.
of proportion, which we postponed before, again faces us.
If things are to be exchanged, they must be in some way
commensurable. Now how can things so different in their
nature as skill and food be measured against one another?
This problem has been solved by the adoption of money as
the medium of exchange. Whatever is used as the medium
of exchange necessarily becomes also the measure of value.
If the mason, the shoemaker, the doctor and the farmer can
all be induced to take one commodity in return for their
services, the value of all other commodities can be expressed
in terms of this one, so that we have now the means of
determining how many shoes are equal to one house and
how much skill is equal to so much food. Without this
contrivance we could not have established our proportion-
As A : B :: D: C.
As mason shoemaker: shoes: house;
:
and without this proportion there could have been no
exchange, and consequently no association. You see then.
-do you not-the absolute necessity that there is for
having some one commodity to serve as a universal measure
of value ?
THEOPHRASTUS. Yes, I seem to see that: but there are
some questions I would like to ask, if I may.
ARISTOTLE. You will help me much, if
you do.
THEOPHRASTUS. First, how could people have been in-
duced originally to accept one commodity, which perhaps
they didn't want, in lieu of the supply of their immediate
needs? Second, how can skill be measured against money
any more than against food?
ARISTOTLE. Your questions are well put, and I will do
my best to answer them.
As regards the first, the name 'currency,' which we bestow
on coin, would seem to point to its being adopted by current
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CORRECTIVE JUSTICE
consent.
It is not a work of nature, but an institution of
man. At all events men might, if they agreed to do so,
cease to use gold as the medium of exchange, and so deprive
it of its peculiar value. It would then be left only with
such value as it may originally have had as a possession,
not as an instrument of exchange. And some value of this
kind, I take it, it must always have had, to account for its
being adopted as the medium. For though we say that
money is conventional, not natural, the result of agreement
among men themselves, not a gift to man from nature, yet
it is not to be supposed that men ever met together and
formally agreed to accept gold in exchange for all other
commodities. Rather the agreement was a tacit one, into
which men were forced by the necessities of the situation.
Not in this or that country alone, but practically all the
world over, the precious metals have been accepted as
the medium of exchange. They are a sort of language of
commerce which everybody understands.
Now why this universal acceptance?
If our mason wanted shoes, and had only a house to give
in exchange for them, he would have to take an incon-
veniently large quantity of shoes-that is to say, if he could
get shoes for it at all, for that would depend on whether he
could find a shoemaker who happened to want a house, just
when he was on the look-out for shoes. A house, you see,
is about as bad a basis of exchange as you could possibly
select, because its unit-value is so great, it is so unportable,
and so little capable of division. The man who was obliged
to take a houseworth of every other commodity would find
himself in a bad way. Then you cannot carry houses to
market either at home or abroad; nor can you pay for
thimbles in fractions of a house.
Now gold was a commodity the properties of which were
the very reverse of all this. When I say it was a commodity,
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We need not suppose
I mean that it had a value in use.
that it was found useful in manufacture before it was
employed as money, but it was always used as an ornament.
As soon as men have filled the insides of their bodies, their
first thought is to adorn the outsides. This fact gave to
gold an intrinsic value, which would make it exchange for
something everywhere; for nothing is more world-pervading
than vanity. But an ornament, however beautiful, loses its
charm, if it becomes common: if vanity is to be gratified,
you must have something which others have not.
gold is a thing of which nature has produced but a small
quantity. Its rarity then gives it great value in small bulk,
and so it becomes one of the most portable of all things.
Then the fact that it can be melted and divided into any
number of parts you please, all of precisely similar quality,
and can also, if required, be fused together again into one
lump, makes it admirably adapted for purposes of exchange,
whether against the smallest or largest commodities.
Now
These considerations are, I think, sufficient to show why
gold should by a tacit convention have been accepted as
the medium of exchange. I have spoken of gold exclusively,
partly for convenience of expression and partly because what
I had to say was pre-eminently true of it, but you may extend
my remarks to other metals, such as silver, iron, and copper,
which are also used for money.
So much then for your first question. Now I turn to your
second, which was to this effect-How can money serve as
a common measure of things so disparate in their nature
as, say, skill and food?
Well, theoretically speaking, it cannot, though for practical
purposes it can. In the strict sense of the term a measure
of anything must be a part of the thing itself, or at least
homogeneous with it. Thus a line is measured by a line.
and a magnitude by another magnitude. Now the things
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CORRECTIVE JUSTICE
them, that is, that
Demand then is
It is demand that
which money will purchase appear to be absolutely hetero-
geneous both from it and from one another, and so to
admit of no common measure at all. The only thing they
have in common is the fact that we want
they have the power to gratify desire.
the real common measure of things.
is the soul of commerce, and money is only the expression.
of this vital principle. Take away demand and commerce
dies; diminish it, and commerce droops; make it greater
on one side than on the other, and you alter the conditions
of commerce. But when there is an active demand on both
sides, then commerce is brisk, as when a corn-producing
country wants wine, and is ready in exchange for it to allow
of the exportation of corn. Now money is, as it were, the
conventional representative of demand. Plato did well
when he called it a 'symbol.' And, like other symbols,
it has the enormous advantage of universality. Money does
not mean the demand for this or that particular commodity
only, but the demand for something in general. When the
shoemaker comes to the mason for a house, the mason may
not want his shoes, but he is sure, sooner or later, to want
something, and so, though he would not take the shoe-
maker's shoes, he is glad to get the shoemaker's money.
Like the prime matter, which is actually nothing, but
potentially everything, money is not itself wealth, but, so
long as it passes current, it can be transformed into wealth :
it is potentially any of the things it can purchase, and in
succession all of them.
Now I have answered your second question, Theophrastus,
to the best of my ability, and have endeavoured to show
you how money serves to render things commensurable.
Demand is the only real measure of value, but money, as
it were, represents demand, or, perhaps I should express my
meaning better by saying that it represents the certainty of
Z
338
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
supply as soon as one feels a want. It is a pledge given
to the receiver empowering him to complete an exchange.
at such time and in such a way as may be most convenient
to himself. Money, therefore, must serve as a legal tender
for any required commodity.
THEOPHRASTUS. But suppose people wanted a given
commodity more than money, they would not be willing
to take money in exchange for it.
ARISTOTLE. That is true, but you are assuming an ex-
ceptional case. There will generally be somebody who will
be ready to give you what you want for money. In a time
of famine indeed, or during a siege, when provisions have
run short, money might be unable to procure food; and, as
food is necessary to life, you might be inclined to think that
money had lost its value: but it would still retain its
purchasing power in other respects. Money tends to have
a permanent value more than anything else for the reason
that I have already indicated, namely, that it represents
potentially all commodities. Supposing the amount of
money in circulation to remain the same, the only thing
that would cause any serious fluctuation in its value would
be a general increase or decrease in all other commodities.
In times of plenty money will purchase more; in seasons of
dearth it will purchase less.
NICOMACHUS. This is a very interesting discussion, father,
that you are having with Theophrastus. But have we not
wandered away from justice?
ARISTOTLE. No, my son, I think not. Proportional
reciprocity in commerce is part of the problem of dis-
tributive justice, and it is only through the agency of
money that this can be secured. A workman is unjustly
dealt with, if he does not get an exact equivalent for his
work. But how could he expect to get an exact equivalent,
if we were still depending on the primitive method of barter?
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CORRECTIVE JUSTICE
Sometimes he would get more value than he gave, and
sometimes less, according to the immediate needs of the
person with whom he was exchanging. It is only through
the device of money that we are enabled to make out such
a proportion as this—
As a farmer (A): so much food (C)
maker (B): so many shoes (D)—
: a shoe-
because without the aid of money we could not effect an
equation between shoes and food. Even with its aid we
can only do so roughly and for practical purposes, as I said
before. But a great step has been made towards distributive
justice when the general need for a commodity has been
substituted in the determination of its value for the particular
need of a given person at a given time.
Now I am going to sum up my argument about money in
a way that will show you that, like justice, it is necessary to
the very existence of society.
If there were no money, things would not be com-
mensurable.
If things were not commensurable, there would be no
equation of values.
If there were no equation of values, there would be no
exchange.
If there were no exchange, there would be no society.
What conclusion follows from those premisses?
NICOMACHUS. Why, that if there were no money, there
would be no society.
THEOPHRASTUS. It certainly does follow. But isn't it
rather odd that it should? I have always understood
that two negative premisses prove nothing, and I suppose
a fortiori that four have no business to prove anything.
ARISTOTLE. They are only in appearance negative. It
would be easy to express the same train of reasoning in an
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340
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
affirmative form, beginning at the other end, and working
backwards. But I must leave you to transpose it at your
leisure, as we have somewhat overstepped our time already.
THEOPHRASTUS. Oh! I see. May I do it now?
ARISTOTLE. Well, let us hear you.
THEOPHRASTUs. If there is to be society, there must be
exchange.
If there is to be exchange, there must be equation of
values.
If there is to be equation of values, things must be
commensurable.
If things are to be commensurable, there must be
money.
.. If there is to be society, there must be money.
ARISTOTLE. Quite right. Of course we mean by our
conclusion—' If there is to be society worthy of the name.'
Under a system of barter you might have households
possessing property in common, and exchanging their
surplus products with other such households: but the
complex relations of a state could not be maintained under
such a system. Now, Nicomachus, here's a problem for
you before we close. If a house is worth five minas and
a couch one, how many couches must you give for one
house?
NICOMACHUS. Five, father. I can solve that problem,
you see, although it is mathematics.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, but would it have been so easy to solve,
if there were not money to help you?
LECTURE XXX
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, V. 5, § 17 to end of Ch. VIII|
:
IN WHAT SENSE JUSTICE IS A MEAN: JUSTICE
DEFINED CIVIL JUSTICE AND HOUSEHOLD JUS-
TICE: NATURAL AND CONVENTIONAL JUSTICE :
DISTINCTION BETWEEN JUSTICE AND JUST DEAL-
ING JUSTICE MUST BE VOLUNTARY
In the tentative definition of justice with which we began
we said that it was 'that sort of state in consequence of
which men are able to do what is just.' As I pointed out
to you at the time, this is not defining a thing by itself, but
is an attempt to explain the internal by the external. What
has been said since then may be considered to have thrown
sufficient light on the nature of the just, objectively con-
sidered. We have seen that it is always a mean between
too much and too little, either according to geometrical or
according to arithmetical proportion. The unjust in like
manner has been seen to be one or other of the extremes.
This being so, we may go on to say now that just dealing
is a mean between doing and suffering what is unjust,
between having too much, that is to say, and having too
little. By 'just dealing' I mean the course of action
which the just man pursues, without reference to the motive
which prompts it. It would be possible to deal justly with-
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[LECT.
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out being just. Let us now come to justice itself—I mean
to the state, subjectively considered.
The first thing we have to notice about it is that it seems
at first sight to be an exception to the rule that virtue is
a mean. Take any of the other moral virtues, and you can
point to an opposite vice on each side of it, one in the way
of excess and the other in that of defect; but justice has
only one opposite, namely, injustice. Whether a man
chooses too much good or too little evil for himself, we
equally call him unjust.
THEOPHRASTUS. Is there not conceivably an opposite
habit of mind which might lead a man to choose too little
good for himself and too much evil? I don't suppose
would be common, but still it might exist sometimes, like
insensibility to pleasure. And if there is such a thing,
would it not be a vice of a nature opposite to injustice ?
ARISTOTLE. There may be such a habit of mind with
reference to external goods, with which alone justice and
injustice are concerned. But, speaking absolutely, a man
cannot choose evil. If he relinquishes his claim to a lower
good, it is because he seeks a higher. Therefore I do not
see how the habit of mind you speak of can be called a vice.
It is a subject however to which we may return later.
Meanwhile however, if justice is not a mean in the ordinary
sense, as lying between two vices, we can still see that it is
a mean in the sense of aiming at the mean, and herein it
resembles virtue generally. The effect of justice is to
embody itself in acts which are, as we have seen, in a quite
literal and calculable sense means. The effect of injustice
on the other hand is to embody itself in the extremes of
too much and too little, too much good for one and too
little for another. What then is justice itself? It is time
to answer this question.
Justice is a habit of mind in virtue of which the just man
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JUSTICE Defined
is said to be disposed to do purposely what is just, and to
effect a distribution, whether as between himself and another,
or between others, not in such a manner as to assign the
greater share of the choiceworthy to himself, and the less to his
neighbour, and inversely in the case of the hurtful, but so as
to dispense the proportionately equal, whether as between him-
self and another or between others.
You see that our definition of justice is built on the
popular conception from which we started. Only we have
analyzed the idea of the just, and have arrived, I hope, at
its essence, as being proportionate equality. Another
difference is that for the vague' wish' of the multitude we
have substituted the 'will' or 'purpose' of the rationally
good man.
What I have said of justice can easily be applied by your-
selves to injustice. It leads a man to will the unjust, that
is to say, the excess or defect of the useful or hurtful, and
so to violate proportion. Injustice then is both excess and
defect, because it aims at both excess and defect. In the
case of the unjust man himself it always aims at the excess
of that which is, abstractedly at all events, useful; whereas
in the case of others, the character of the act as a whole is
the same, but the violation of proportion may be either on
one side or the other. Lastly, as the state of mind which
we call injustice has a double character, so also has its result,
an act of injustice. Looked at from the point of view of
the injured party, it is the less; from that of the injurer, the
more.
We may consider now that we have fulfilled the original
scope of our inquiry concerning the nature of justice and
injustice, as well as of the just and unjust generally. As
justice is the last of the moral virtues, we ought to advance
now to the consideration of the intellectual virtues. But
I hardly think it advisable to enter on so heavy a subject in
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the few days that now separate us from the Feast of Pitchers.
When we resume our course after that break, we will hope
to attack the subject with renewed energies. Consequently
any questions or remarks that any of you may have to make
will be more than ever welcome. They may afford me an
opportunity of bringing out some points connected with
justice, my handling of which I feel has been far too
cramped and inadequate.
EUDEMUS. I was delighted, if you will allow me to say so,
with your mathematical treatment of justice. As soon as
a thing is connected with numbers, it seems at once to be
set on a basis of eternal reality.
ARISTOTLE. I am afraid there is a vein of Pythagorean
mysticism left in all of us, which I ought not to have
encouraged. But I kept from going so far as to say that
justice is a perfect square, and only showed how its nature
could be illustrated by a square.
EUDEMUS. You dropped a remark in passing, that it
would be possible to deal justly without being just. As
justice is the exercise of virtue towards other people,
I suppose that comes to the same thing as what you made
clear to me before, namely, that one might act virtuously
without being virtuous.
ARISTOTLE. It is the same thing under a different aspect.
NICOMACHUS. Then, I suppose, father, that a man may
act unjustly without being unjust?
ARISTOTLE. To be sure he can. He may tell a lie with-
out being a liar; he may steal without being a thief; he
may commit a peccadillo without being a rake.
NICOMACHUS. Then I wish you would give us some
criterion, father, to enable us to judge from a man's act
whether he is to be called by these bad names or not.
ARISTOTLE. I am afraid you will not find any difference
in the acts themselves, my son. It depends on whether
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CIVIL JUSTICE
one does the thing on purpose or is betrayed into it by
passion.
THEOPHRASTUs. I was struck by a remark you made
some time ago to the effect that it might be possible to be
a good citizen without being a good man.
ARISTOTLE. In an imperfect form of constitution it is.
A good citizen must indeed always be a good man relatively
to the ideal of the state to which he belongs. But, if that
ideal be a mistaken one, he need not be a good man
absolutely. It is only in the one perfect state that the good
man and the good citizen necessarily coincide.
THEOPHRASTUs. But I suppose every state would have
its own type of justice, to which it would expect its citizens
to conform?
ARISTOTLE. That is true: but science cannot take
account of individual divergences. Justice, in the ideal
sense, is the conduct towards one another of citizens in the
perfect state. You may call this 'civil justice.'
THEOPHRASTUs. In that state, it is to be hoped, there
would be no need for corrective justice. But why do you
wish us to call perfect justice 'civil justice,' when that does
not distinguish it from the imperfect types?
ARISTOTLE. You may include the imperfect types under
the term 'civil justice,' if you like. The fact is, another
distinction has just occurred to me, which I think it may be
useful to dwell on. There are relations between man and
man which do not come under civil justice, but which still
may be regulated by justice in a secondary sense. The
reciprocity, of which I have spoken, is only possible in the
relations of free citizens co-operating towards the attainment
of a perfect life and standing to one another on a footing of
proportionate or absolute equality. Take away this recipro-
city, and you have no civil justice, no justice in what we
consider to be the proper sense of the term, but you may
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[LECT.
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still have what is called justice in virtue of its resemblance
to the other.
Before however I proceed to speak about these secondary
forms, let me give you a few thoughts which occur to me
about the primary.
Justice exists only between those between whom there
exists law. Now law implies the possibility of injustice. It
is this possibility, or rather the too frequent actuality, of
injustice, which calls for the machinery of legal justice,
which we may regard as the organization of civil society.
It is the function of legal justice to enforce the recognition
of moral justice, where it is not spontaneously complied with.
Where there is the possibility, there is pretty sure to be the
actuality of injustice. I mean that where the spirit of
injustice exists, it is likely to make itself evident in the
commission of unjust acts, though it is quite possible to
have unjust acts which are not prompted by the spirit of
injustice. By the commission of injustice I mean, as you
know, the assigning to oneself the greater share of what is,
abstractedly considered, good, and the lesser share of what
is, from a similar point of view, evil.
NICOMACHUS. You say 'abstractedly considered,' do you
not, father, because it would be possible for a man to be
really doing himself the greatest injury when he thought
that he was grabbing at good?
ARISTOTLE. Yes, men are always making such mistakes.
as to their real interest; and to guard against the harm that
results therefrom to themselves and others, we do not allow
any man to possess irresponsible power, but regard reason
as our only ruler. Reason, having no passions, is not
troubled by cupidity, and so will not turn tyrant like a man.
But then reason, it must be confessed, is weak in the
executive department, and so we have to appoint a human
ruler as her prime minister, taking care however to impress
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HOUSEHOLD JUSTICE
upon him that he is merely a guardian of justice, and, if of
justice, then of equality.
NICOMACHUS. Then he gets no advantage by being
ruler; for, if he is just, he will not assign to himself any-
thing but what falls proportionately to him, and which
therefore any one else would assign to him who conducted
a just distribution. He must be a very benevolent man to
take so much trouble for others. I can understand now
why justice should be called another's good.
ARISTOTLE. I might say to you with Socrates that he gets
the advantage of not being ruled by a worse man. But
I think the motive that really operates on the average
human ruler is the honour and privileges attaching to the
position. We pay him a large salary of this kind to prevent
peculation. It is those who are not satisfied with this kind
of payment who turn tyrants.
So much for civil justice. But the relations of life are
not confined to the intercourse between free and equal
citizens. Outside the household men meet as peers, but
within his own household every father of a family is king.
The household we regard as resting upon three relations,
all of them natural ones-to wit, the relation
(1) Of husband and wife,
(2) Of parent and child,
(3) Of master and slave.
The spirit which should regulate all three relations may be
called in a sense 'justice,' but we had better call it 'house-
hold justice,' to distinguish it from the civil justice already
spoken of.
The particular species which subsists between master
and slave we may call 'despotic justice.'
The slave, as such, has no rights at all against his master,
any more than the pocket-knife has, which the master carries
about with. him to do the work of cutting. A tool is a life-
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less slave, and a slave is a living tool. One's foot or hand
might as well claim rights against one as a slave. The slave
in fact is part of his master as much as any limb. He has
no will of his own, but is dominated by the will of his owner
as the limbs of the body are. He is, in fact, an extension of
his master's person, being a limb that has the advantage
of being able to operate at a distance.
THEOPHRASTUs. That is an uncommonly convenient
theory-for the master.
ARISTOTLE. It is the theory on which household slavery
rests. If the master and the slave do not both find their
account in it, the master in obtaining the services of the slave,
and the slave in thus being taken into the personality of his
master, their relation does not rest on a natural basis, and
evil is likely to come of it. Now, granting this theory, it is
easy to see that there cannot be injustice towards a slave,
any more than there can be towards oneself, since a slave is
part of oneself. I mean of course that there is no injustice
or justice in the civil sense; for we have seen that this is
based on law and exists only between those between whom
it is natural for law to exist, that is to say, between equals,
whose relations are based on the perfect reciprocity of ruling
and being ruled in turn. To say that there is justice in this
full sense between master and slave is to say, that the slave
might some time become master. But the master is always
master and the slave is always a slave. The spirit then which
should regulate the relation between master and slave is not
justice, though it is something like justice. You may be
kind and considerate to a slave, and you may even love him
as a man. We have called the feeling 'despotic justice.'
NICOMACHUS. And how about the relation of parent and
child, father?
ARISTOTLE. The child, my son, so long as he is a child,
is part of the father and governed by his will, just as the
XXX] NATURAL AND CONVENTIONAL JUSTICE 349
slave is. But there is this great difference between the two
cases. The child will in time cease to be so, and will
become a man having equal rights with his father. Until
then however there can be no justice or injustice in the
full sense towards him. We may call the feeling which
should regulate the relations between father and child
'paternal justice.'
EUDEMUS. There remains the relation between husband
and wife.
ARISTOTLE. There we come to something which borders
more closely upon civil justice. For though the husband.
ought always to rule, and always does so, when the union is
a natural one, yet the wife also should be supreme in her
own department. She should be allowed the control of the
things in the house; for it is the function of the man to get
and of the woman to keep. A man also has no business to
interfere with his wife in her management of the maid-
servants.
EUDEMUS. And what name would you give to this kind
of justice?
ARISTOTLE. It will suffice to call it by the generic name
of household justice.
You identified civil
Does not that look
THEOPHRASTUs. As that subject seems to be exhausted,
I would like to introduce a fresh one.
justice with absolute or perfect justice.
somewhat like a concession to the theory of Protagoras, with
which I know you do not agree, that all justice is con-
ventional?
ARISTOTLE. I don't know why it should. Even those
who maintain most strenuously that justice exists by nature,
and not merely by convention, would be ready to allow that
it is an outgrowth of society. But then society itself exists.
by nature. Society, by which I mean the state, is founded
on the family, and the family is founded on the three
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[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
relations of which we have spoken, and which, as I re-
marked before, are natural.
THEOPHRASTUs. Then is civil justice the same thing as
natural justice?
ARISTOTLE. In a perfect state of society the ordinances
of man would coincide with the law of nature.
THEOPHRASTUs. In that case it looks as if they would be
superfluous.
man.
ARISTOTLE. Well, we will waive that question, as it is not
a burning one-at present. But civil justice, in any sense
in which we can be practically concerned with it, must be
regarded as containing two elements--a natural and a con-
ventional, or purely legal, element. I have said that justice
is coextensive with law: but under the conception of law
you ought to include the law of nature, as well as the law of
The former is common to all mankind, the latter is
special to a given community. To these two kinds of law
the two elements of which I have spoken in civil justice
correspond. The naturally just is not confined to this or that
locality, but has everywhere the same force, not depending
in any wise upon opinion: it may or may not be established
by law also, but even if it is, it does not derive its sanction
from law only. The conventionally just, on the other hand,
is made by opinion and law. It is something which is in
its own nature indifferent, but which, when enacted, becomes
just and right; for instance, that the ransom for a common
soldier should be one mina, or that the sacrifice to Zeus
should be a goat and not a couple of sheep. Under the
same head comes such particular legislation as the sacrifices
which the citizens of Amphipolis have instituted to Brasidas,
together with all matters of special decree.
THEOPHRASTUSs. But is there any kind of justice which is
recognised all the world over?
ARISTOTLE. I did not say there was. What I maintain
XXX] IN WHAT SENSE JUSTICE IS A MEAN 35I
is that the naturally just has everywhere the same force,
whether it be recognised or not. When nature marks
a thing out to be wrong, she herself affixes the penalty.
The evil consequences of such an act are as much a part of
it as the properties of a triangle. The Protagoreans ignore
this fact when they argue that justice must be purely an
invention of man, on the ground that nature is uniform,
whereas ideas of justice are not. 'Fire,' they say, 'burns
the same here as in Persia: but how different are our ideas
of right and wrong from those current in Persia'? Let us
do them the justice of admitting that there is something in
what they say. Still there is not nearly so much as they
think. For not only do they exaggerate the mutability of
morals, but they also exaggerate the immutability of nature.
Among the Gods perhaps they will find the absolute immu-
tability for which they crave, but in this sublunary sphere
all is liable to change, including even nature herself. But
this does not prevent us from saying that one thing is
natural and another not; though all things material admit
of being otherwise than as they are, there is still a tangible
distinction between what exists by nature and what is merely
the result of law and convention. Take an instance from
another department of nature, and you will see the truth of
what I am saying. No one I suppose would maintain that
the distinction between the right hand and the left is
a merely conventional matter. It is obvious that the right
hand is naturally stronger than the left. And yet, if we were
all to practise throwing and other actions assiduously with.
the left hand, we might all become ambidextrous.
Still as
a matter of fact we do not. Why? Because nature is too
strong for us. You must regard nature then as a set of
tendencies, which may indeed be frustrated, but which
prevail on the whole and in the long run.
Now contrast with this natural justice, which has every-
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where the same force, the merely conventional justice of
man, which is dictated by local and temporary expediencies.
This is not the same everywhere, any more than the measures
by which a merchant buys are the same as those by which
he sells. The reason of these divergences in conventional
justice we have seen already. Justice is always relative to
the state, and every state has its own type of justice. Never-
theless there is one perfect type, which is realised in the one
perfect state. In that state the conventional and the natural
coincide, just as what seems good to the perfect man
coincides with what is good.
NICOMACHUS. Theophrastus has certainly had his turn
now, father; and I think you rather shelved my question·
I daresay I did not put it very well-as to how we are to
know, when the same act is done, whether it stamps a man
as downright unjust or not.
ARISTOTLE. I think I have dealt with that point often
enough, my son but as it is no part of my method to avoid
repetitions, let us deal with it again. Some new point of
view often presents itself when one treats of the same thing
in a fresh connexion.
I think we might begin now by noticing the distinction
between abstract principles of right and wrong and their
embodiment in acts. What is right or wrong in principle
stands to what is right or wrong in fact as the universal to
the particular-as the one to the many. A thing may be
unjust in principle either because it is forbidden by the law
of nature or by the law of man. As soon as the command-
ment, of whichever kind, is transgressed, then we have what
is unjust in fact, which we will call an act of injustice.'
Similarly a thing may be just in principle, whether it be put.
into practice or not: but as soon as it is put into practice,
then it passes into the just in fact. We might call it then
an act of justice,' only for the tendency that there is in
XXX] IN WHAT SENSË JUSTICE IS A MEAN 353
It
usage to limit that term to the rectification of wrong.
will be safer therefore to call it 'just dealing.' 'Just
dealing' then you will understand to be a generic term
including just acts that are performed for their own sakes as
well as those that are necessitated by previous injustice, as
when we say that it is an act of justice to put a murderer to
death.
Having emphasized this distinction between the just or
unjust in principle and the just or unjust in fact, we may
now go on to say that a man is held to act justly or unjustly,
when his action in either case is voluntary. When, on the
other hand, it is not voluntary, he cannot be held to have
acted either justly or unjustly, except indeed indirectly.
NICOMACHUS. What do you mean by 'indirectly,' father?
ARISTOTLE. I mean that he has done what might argue
justice or injustice in another but not in him. For to have
either an act of injustice or a piece of just dealing, the will
must be called into play. When an unjust act is done
voluntarily, it is blamed, and then only does it amount to an
act of injustice or injury: so that you may have an act which
violates all principles of justice and yet is not an act of
injustice, in case the element of voluntariness has not
entered into it.
·
NICOMACHUS. Would you mind defining the voluntary
again, father?
ARISTOTLE. What we said about it was something like
this. It is something in one's own power, which one does
with full knowledge, not being under any misapprehension
either as to the patient or the instrument or the tendency of
the act; for instance, striking a man, knowing who he is, and
with what you are striking him, and what the result of such
an act is likely to be. The indirectness, you see, of ignorance.
and compulsion must be alike excluded.
Let me illustrate what I mean. You might know that
A a
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you were beating a man in a brawl on a dark night, but you
might not know that that man was your father. In that
case you would certainly, physically speaking, have beaten
your father, but, morally speaking, you would not. That
will give you an idea of what I mean by doing the thing
indirectly. Again, if some one were to take hold of your
hand, and therewith deal your father a blow in the face,
although it was your hand that dealt the blow, it would not
be you that did the deed, for you were not a voluntary
agent: you acted under compulsion, and the efficient cause
did not lie with you.
Ignorance of the tendency, or result, and of the other
constituents of a moral act might be illustrated in a similar
way. But I think I have said enough to re-establish the
conclusion at which we arrived before, that an act is in-
voluntary, if it be due to ignorance or to compulsion.
EUDEMUS. What are we to make of such processes as go
on in us from nature, consciously enough, but indepen-
dently of our own wills? A man may know that he is
digesting his food or that his heart is beating; he certainly
knows when he is growing grey, and is often aware of the
fact that he is dying. Are such acts voluntary or in-
voluntary ?
THEOPHRASTUs. I should think that dying was a highly
involuntary act. Most people object to it strongly.
EUDEMUS. But we draw a marked distinction between
a natural and a violent death. And, generally, is not nature
a distinct principle from force or compulsion?
ARISTOTLE. I quite see your difficulty, Eudemus, and am
glad you have raised it. Let us take a particular instance,
that of growing old. A man is fully aware of the fact that
he is growing old. The act, therefore, if it can be called
such, is certainly not due to ignorance. Neither, as you
well point out, is it due to compulsion, since we contrast
XXX] IN WHAT SENSE JUSTICE IS A MEAN 355
nature with force or compulsion.. It would seem then that
we ought to recognise a third class of involuntary act, as
I gather that you wish to do, which is neither due to
ignorance nor to compulsion, but to nature. But does not
the difficulty, after all, arise from our neglecting the only
really logical division of acts, namely, into voluntary and
non-voluntary? To the latter class, if you remember, we
assigned all acts that are due to ignorance, because as their
real nature is not before the mind of the agent, his will
could not be consulted on the subject. In that class they
remained, if he did not repent of them: but, if the pain and
repentance they caused him showed that they did really run
counter to his will, then we consented to elevate them into
involuntary acts.
NICOMACHUS. Then, I suppose, father, that growing old
and dying are non-voluntary acts: but if a man strongly
objects to them, as Theophrastus seemed to think most
people did, they would in his case be involuntary.
ARISTOTLE. Perhaps that is the truth of the matter. But
let us defend the sage from Theophrastus, and say that, as
he lives in accordance with nature, a death in the course of
nature will never run counter to his will.
Now to return to what I was saying.
Just, as well as unjust, acts may be done indirectly or
contingently. A man returns a deposit. Well and good:
he has done the kind of act a just man would do. But he
does it reluctantly and through fear. Then he has not done
it in the spirit in which the just man would do it, and so
cannot be credited with an act of justice. He has only
done the just act indirectly. You all remember the story
told by Herodotus of Glaucus, the son of Epicydes, who
consulted the oracle at Delphi as to whether he should
restore a treasure to the sons of the man who left it with
him, when they had duly presented the half-tickets, entitling
A a 2
356
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
them to receive it. The prophetess frightened him into
honesty by alluding to the awful consequences of perjury.
He did the just act, but it was not counted to him for
justice; for, as the story runs, the threatened consequences
were visited upon him, and his race was utterly blotted out
from Sparta. I forget the exact words of the oracle, but no
doubt Theophrastus can help us here as usual.
THEOPHRASTUS.
Swear, Epicydes' son: 'twill suit thy book for the present
Lightly to reck of thine oath, and swag the cash of the stranger.
Swear for one end awaits alike the just and the villain.
Aye, but a being is born without name, by perjury fathered;
Headless and footless it is, but swift to pursue and to capture,
E'en to the utter destroying of house and of sons and de-
scendants.
Nay, but abide by thine oath, and thy race shall endure for
the future.'
ARISTOTLE. That is certainly the drift of the oracle.
But have you not been tampering with the wording,
especially in the first two lines? No oracle ever spoke like
that.
THEOPHRASTUS. I'm sure of the spirit, but I can't be
sure of the letter. But I wonder how it is that the God
who is supposed to preside over poetry should be generally
so poor a poet. Perhaps it is that his thoughts suffer in the
process of translation.
And yet the specimens of the
language of the Gods, which Homer has preserved to us,
appear to be good Greek enough.
ARISTOTLE. You are irrelevant, Theophrastus, if not
frivolous. Take example by Eudemus.
Now let us turn to the reverse case. Suppose that
Glaucus, the son of Epicydes, had really possessed the
justice for which he was renowned, but was prevented by
superior force from returning the deposit, or was genuinely
Xxx] IN WHAT SENSE JUSTICE IS A MEAN 357
convinced that the tickets were forged, do you think then that
he would have deserved to incur a penalty for injustice?
THEOPHRASTUS. No, he would only have committed the
unjust act indirectly.
ARISTOTLE. Why?
Theophrastus. Because it was involuntary, being due to
compulsion or ignorance.
ARISTOTLE. How did we divide voluntary acts ?
THEOPHRASTUs. Into pure and mixed.
ARISTOTLE. Did we divide them in any other way?
THEOPHRASTUS. Into those done on purpose and those
not.
ARISTOTLE. How did we differentiate those that were
done on purpose?
THEOPHRASTUS. By their being premeditated.
ARISTOTLE. That's right.
Your wits may wander, but
I see that they can be at home when they're wanted. The
little examination, which I have put you through, has
served the further purpose of reminding us of some things
which it is useful to bear in mind at present.
I want now to distinguish between the different kinds of
harm that may be done by one man to another in social
intercourse. Sometimes the harm is done in sheer ignor-
ance, owing to mistake with regard to some of the vital
circumstances of the act,-the patient, object, instrument,
or result. A man may not have intended to hit anybody, or
not with what he did, or not the person whom he did, or
not with the result that has actually ensued, for instance he
may not have intended to wound, but only to prick.
When then the harm results contrary to all reasonable
expectation, it is a mischance or accident, but when it might
reasonably have been expected, but is void of evil intent, it
is a fault. To prove that harm done implies a fault, you
see, it is necessary that the principle of causation should lie
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LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
in the agent; when it lies outside of him, the thing is a mere
accident. When, however, a man is fully aware of the harm
he is doing, then we have not merely a fault, but a positive
piece of injustice.
NICOMACHUS. And, I suppose, father, that this is the
kind of act which stamps a man as unjust?
ARISTOTLE. Even yet, my son, I won't go so far as to
say that. If there's any doubt, we're bound to give the
prisoner the benefit of it. Now suppose that a man inflicted
some harm on another, knowing well enough what he was
doing, but misled for the moment by anger or by some of
those passions which are naturally and necessarily incidental
to man, although we should not hesitate to brand his
behaviour as unjust, ought we not to think twice before we
branded his character? The mere voluntariness then of
an act of injustice is not enough to stamp the agent as
a bad and unjust man: we must further know that the act
is done on purpose.
NICOMACHUS. Then, when an act of injustice is committed
on purpose, a man is at last proved to be unjust?
ARISTOTLE. Yes: I've nothing more to say for him then.
But the courts of justice recognise the distinction that
I have drawn between injuries prompted by anger and
those that are due to malice aforethought. And they are
right in doing so. For in the former case the origin of the
mischief does not lie with the man who has acted in
a passion, but with him who put him into a passion. And
again, the question under dispute is not one of fact, but of
justice for anger is stirred at the appearance of injustice.
In a dispute about fact-for instance, as to whether a debt
has been paid or not-one of the two parties must be
a knave, unless the difference be due to a lapse of memory.
But in a dispute about justice both may be equally con-
vinced that they are in the right. This then makes a strong
:
xxx] IN WHAT SENSE JUSTICE IS A MEAN 359
difference between injuries arising from anger and those due
to deliberate wickedness. In the former the injurer fancies
he has a grievance, in the latter he does not.
It is then when equality, either actual or proportionate,
is violated deliberately and of malice aforethought that we
have the blackest sort of injustice, which necessitates a con-
demnatory inference as to the character of the agent.
Similarly a man can only be inferred to be of just
character, when the act is done of set purpose for its own
sake: but we may say that he is dealing justly, whatever his
motive may be, if only we know him to be acting voluntarily.
EUDEMUS. I notice that you now speak definitely of acts
due to anger as being done knowingly. Before, although
you would not allow that they were due to ignorance, you
still spoke of them as being done in ignorance.
ARISTOTLE. I did; and I think that the contradiction is
more apparent than real. When a thing is of an ambiguous
nature, one's language about it is liable to vary. We talk
of a man being blinded by passion, and yet in a way he
knows what he is doing.
EUDEMUS. You told us, I remember, that pardon and
pity were the proper attitude of mind towards involuntary
offences, and I can understand that this is so in the case of
acts that are not merely done in ignorance but due to
ignorance. But, suppose you have a man who commits an
atrocious deed under the mastery of some abnormal and
unnatural passion, would you say that it was proper to
pardon him?
ARISTOTLE. If I were speaking strictly, I would not say
that such an act was involuntary. For though the passion
by which it was prompted was unnatural in the abstract, it
was nevertheless part of the perverted nature of the agent.
I see that the tendency to call some at least of the acts that
are prompted by passion involuntary must be very strong
360
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
since it infects you still after all that we have said against it.
But if one once gives way to it, I do not see how we are to
stop short of pronouncing all acts whatever to be involun-
tary, since they are all prompted by feeling of some sort.
You had better recall at your leisure the arguments that
I gave you before on that subject. As for pardon and pity
in the case of the committer of an abnormal crime, you
might be sorry that the man's nature was what it is, but
you would seek to rid society of him, as you would of
a dangerous wild beast.
Next time I shall be glad to discuss any difficulties which
you may like to raise. I hope you will come with a good
budget of questions.
LECTURE XXXI
[NICOMACHEAN ETHICS, V. 9-11]
IN A
CAN A MAN
A MAN BE INJURED VOLUNTARILY?
FALSE AWARD WHO DOES THE INJUSTICE?
CAN A MAN BE UNJUST TO HIMSELF?
WORSE
IS IT
ΤΟ DO OR ΤΟ SUFFER INJUSTICE?
EQUITY THE EQUITABLE MAN
WELL, Theophrastus, I can see that you have something
to say.
THEOPHRASTUS. Yes. I have been reading the Alcmaeon
of Euripides, in which the poet makes Alcmaeon say—
'I slew my mother: short's the tale, not sweet.'
And the answer he receives is-
'What, willing both? Or, willy nilly her?
Now suppose he had not slain her willy nilly, but with
her own consent, would he have been doing her an injury?
And, generally, can a person be injured voluntarily?
ARISTOTLE. And have you any difficulty to propound,
Eudemus?
Is it the man
EUDEMUS. Mine is rather a formal one.
who gives an unfair award or the man who receives it who
commits injustice?
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ARISTOTLE. Now, Nicomachus, it's your turn.
NICOMACHUS. I should like to know, father, whether
a man can be unjust to himself.
ARISTOTLE. Very well. Now we have our program before
Let us take each question in turn, and see what we
can make of it.
us.
To begin with the point raised by Theophrastus. The
commission of injustice is always voluntary. We are agreed.
about that, and can take it as a basis to start from. The
question is about the passive side of the same transaction.
Is that always involuntary? Or is it, let us say for form's
sake, always voluntary? Or is it sometimes voluntary and
sometimes involuntary? That exhausts the possible alter-
natives. But why confine our view to injustice? Justice
also on its active side is always voluntary. As the doing
then both of justice and injustice is always voluntary, it
might seem that this uniformity on the active side would be
balanced by a corresponding uniformity of voluntariness or
involuntariness on the passive side, in the way of suffering
justice or injustice. Do I make my meaning clear, Theo-
phrastus ?
THEOPHRASTUs. Perfectly.
ARISTOTLE. But consider now whether there is this uni-
formity in the way of suffering justice. When you assign
a man a well-deserved prize, he takes it voluntarily enough,
does he not?
THEOPHRASTUS. Yes.
ARISTOTLE. But when you condemn him to be whipped
for theft or hanged for murder, is his consent equally
assured?
THEOPHRASTUs. No, certainly not.
ARISTOTLE. And yet you are doing justice to him quite
as much in the latter case as in the former, and he on his
side is suffering justice equally in both.
XXXI] CAN A MAN BE INJURED VOLUNTARILY? 363
THEOPHRASTUS. Then the presumption would now seem
to lie in favour of the view that the suffering injustice is
sometimes voluntary and sometimes involuntary. And so
I suppose that Alcmaeon's mother might have submitted
voluntarily to being slain; and therefore that my question
whether a person can be injured voluntarily is answered in
the affirmative.
ARISTOTLE. Before we admit that, we must make sure
that the person who suffers what is unjust is always injured.
But is this quite so certain? Let us compare the passive
side again with the active. It is as possible, I suppose, to
receive just treatment indirectly as to give it. And the
same thing applies to injustice. In fact, just the same
distinction that we drew between doing what was unjust
and inflicting an injury may be drawn over again with
respect to suffering what is unjust and receiving an injury;
and the same with regard to being dealt justly with and
having justice done to you. The man who is justly dealt
with suffers what is just, but he cannot be said to have
justice done to him, unless there's some one to do it, which
there is not, if the thing be done indirectly. Similarly
a person may suffer what is unjust without an act of in-
justice on the part of another, but it is impossible for him
to be injured unless there is some one who injures him. If
you want to prove then that a person can be injured with
his own consent, you have first to prove that it is possible
for some one thus to injure him.
THEOPHRASTUs. Well, I think I can prove that.
ARISTOTLE. I should like to hear you do so.
THEOPHRASTUS. To injure a man is voluntarily to do
him harm. By 'voluntarily' we mean knowing the patient,
the instrument, the manner, and so on. Now take the case
of the man who lacks self-restraint. He knows himself and
all about himself, and he voluntarily does harm to himself.
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But voluntarily to do harm to a man is to injure him.
Therefore the man who lacks self-restraint injures himself,
or, in other words, is unjust to himself.
NICOMACHUS. There you're trespassing on my ground.
THEOPHRASTUS. And therefore he is injured with his
own consent. Q.E.D.
That is the proof I would prefer to give. But as Nico-
machus has warned me off his ground, I will alter it slightly.
A man of such a kind may be led by his passions into
allowing some one else voluntarily to do him harm. This
other person then injures him with his own consent, and
therefore he is injured with his own consent. So again
I say Q.E.D.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, you are fully entitled to say so on your
premisses; and I see I shall have to take you off your
premises, if I am to get the better of you. You say that
to injure a man is voluntarily to do him harm, and that
by 'voluntarily' we mean so and so. That is not really
enough to constitute an injury. We should add to the
definition 'against his own wish.'
THEOPHRASTUs. Oh, if you're going to add that to the
definition, of course I give in at once. It would be a mere
contradiction in terms to talk of injuring a man with his
consent, if an injury must be against his consent.
ARISTOTLE. Well, I think that's the true definition of an
injury, and you won't mind giving in to truth. A man may
be hurt voluntarily and may voluntarily suffer what is un-
just, but no one can be injured voluntarily, for no man
ever wishes to be injured. Even the man who hurts him-
self knowingly from lack of self-restraint does not wish to
be injured, but allows himself to be carried away into
acting against his wish. We hold that 'wish' is the
deliberate desire for good or for what one deems to be
good. The man who lacks self-restraint does what he
XXXI] CAN A MAN BE INJURED VOLUNTARILY? 365
deems not to be good, else there would be no lack of self-
restraint about him.
THEOPHRASTUS. Then the intemperate man, who mis-
takes evil for good, wishes to be injured. No: I retract
that, since you make it essential to injury that it should go
against one's wish.
ARISTOTLE. You are held as in a vice by the definition,
Theophrastus; but you made a capital fight for your thesis.
I generally have Glaucus quoted to me, who gave Diomede
'gold for brass,' as Homer says, 'and the worth of a hundred
oxen for that of nine.' But plainly that is no case of being
injured voluntarily. It rests with a man himself to give,
but it does not rest with himself to be injured. He can't
be injured where there's no one to injure him.
NICOMACHUS. No one except himself, father.
ARISTOTLE. We'll come to that presently, my son. Now
we must call upon Eudemus to state his case.
EUDEMUS. My difficulty, I think, will soon be disposed
of. It is rather in the words than in the things. You made
the essence of an unjust act to lie in the person who com-
mits it having too much. Now in the case of an unfair
award it is the man who receives it who has too much, not
the man who gives it, so that, if one presses the words, the
injustice would seem to lie at the door of the former. I feel,
however, that this is rather a quibble, so, assuming the
injustice to lie with the giver of the award, we might pass
on at once to the consideration of Nicomachus' difficulty,
which seems really to lie very much at the root of the
matter. For, if it is the giver of the award who commits
the injustice, then, if a man knowingly and voluntarily
assigns more to another than he does to himself, their
worth being assumed to be equal, he must be guilty of
injustice to himself.
ARISTOTLE. Is that so? You have described the con-
366
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
duct of the equitable man, who often takes less than his
due. But may he not be covetous of some other good than
those he is distributing, of glory, it may be, or simply of
pure, unadulterated nobility of conduct? If in any way he
receives a quid pro quo he cannot be said to be injured.
No one ever takes credit to himself for being injured, but
you often find a man taking credit to himself for giving way
to an elder or a friend, in matters where he would have
been entitled to share with him on equal terms.
THEOPHRASTUs. There again, the definition, I think, will
prove as awkward for Nicomachus as it did for me. The
man who assigns more to another than he does to himself
suffers nothing against his own wish, and therefore he
cannot be injured thereby, but at the most hurt.
ARISTOTLE. That is so, I think; but let Nicomachus
wait. It will teach him not to be impatient.
Here
I have still to deal with your difficulty, Eudemus.
are three reasons for your believing that the injustice lies
with the giver of an unfair award rather than with the
receiver-
I
1) The will to do wrong lies with him;
(2) He is the agent;
(3) He commits injustice of some sort, whether he is
aware of his unfairness or not.
(1) To detect something more than what by right belongs
to him among a man's external possessions is not nearly
such damning evidence against him as to detect the will to
commit injustice in his soul. Now the latter is the case
with the distributor. In him lies the efficient cause, and
therefore the act lies with him.
(2) If the act lies with him, it follows of course that he
is the agent. The receiver of the award is a mere instru-
ment, by aid whereof injustice is perpetrated. He does
injustice only in the sense in which a burglar's crowbar
XXXI] IN A FALSE AWARD WHO IS UNJUST? 367
does it, or one's hand, or a slave who acts at his master's
bidding. In that sense you can do injustice without being
unjust. Even so the man who receives the palm from an
unfair umpire may do injustice without being unjust.
(3) The third argument is a dilemma. Either the dis-
tributor is aware of his unfairness or he is not. If he is
not, he commits no breach of the law, for that only com-
mands him to make the award fairly, according to the best
of his knowledge and belief. But though he does not
break the law of man, he sins grievously against the law of
nature, which is a thing one may do without knowing. He
has set going an injustice which will have its consequences
independently of whether he intended to commit the
crime or not. If, on the other hand, he is aware of his
unfairness, then he is seeking some advantage for himself
either in the way of favour or the gratification of revenge.
Both of these come under the head of what we agreed to
call loosely 'gain.' So that the distributor has, morally
speaking, more than his share, just as he would physically,
if he actually took part in the fruits of injustice. Even in
the latter case he would probably not obtain payment in
kind, but, if he awarded some one a landed estate, would
receive a consideration in money.
THEOPHRASTUS. I think Eudemus' difficulty may be
considered to be not only dead, but buried. I don't want
to revive my own, but I was struck by the last remark you
made to me in connexion with it, that it does not rest with
a man himself to be injured. Here the passive side seems
in strong contrast with the active, for people are certainly
under the idea that it rests with a man himself to be unjust.
ARISTOTLE. Yes, and that is a most fertile source of error.
I'm sure you don't share it, after all that we have said on
the subject at one time or another. It leads them to
imagine, to begin with, that it is an easy thing to be just,
368
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
a thing which they have merely to make up their minds to.
'I will turn over a new leaf to-morrow,' says some one to
himself, and from this day forth I will be just.' But to-
morrow comes and the next day and another day, and still
he is not just. Happily it is equally impossible for the
just man to be unjust straight off. He may behave unjustly
that is perfectly open to him. He may go and lie with
his neighbour's wife, he may knock his neighbour down for
objecting to it, and corrupt his servants by bribery, but still
that is not being unjust.
THEOPHRASTUs. I must say you are very charitable.
ARISTOTLE. I am purposely putting the case strongly,
because I want to lay stress on the fact that the scene of
justice and injustice is the heart of man, and not the out-
ward sphere of act at all. They are both states of the will
which are not to be had for the asking, but only by
strenuous endeavour.
This shows the fallacy of those who think that a man can
be turned out just by a course of instruction. As the man
who has learnt carpentry is a carpenter, and the man who
has learnt medicine a doctor, so, they say, the man who has
learnt justice is just. Indeed, they seem to think that the
profession of justice is easier than another trade or profes-
sion or craft, for it requires no very deep philosophy to
know what the laws enjoin. But this is not so: far from it.
For this knowledge, and even the practice of it, does not
constitute justice, except indirectly. You must act towards
your neighbours and distribute external goods in a certain
spirit before your conduct can be really just either in the
wider or narrower sense of the term, and this is a harder
task than to know the conditions of health. And even
there the same distinction holds good; for mere knowledge
does not make a man a doctor. It is easy enough to know
honey and wine and hellebore and cautery and surgical
XXXI] IN A FALSE AWARD WHO IS UNJUST? 369
operations, but the skill to apply this knowledge so as to
procure health for a given person at a given time is what
really makes the doctor; and this is only to be had by
constant practice.
If all this were borne in mind, we should hear less of such
nonsense as that of the just man being a good thief and an
accomplished rascal generally, because, forsooth, knowing
thoroughly the nature of injustice, he is as well or better
able to commit it than one who has not studied it by con-
trast with its opposite. The temperate man can do the
things that I have mentioned, and which I need not repeat,
as well as the intemperate. Of course he can. And the
brave man can fling away his shield and take to his heels
either in this direction or in that. But, I repeat, it is not
the acts that make cowardice and injustice, but the doing
them in a certain spirit, just as the skill of the physician to
restore health does not lie in performing or not performing
an operation, in administering physic or refraining from
administering it, but in doing so in the physician's way.
But there now-I must stop. I am afraid I have been
betrayed into a little heat.
But
THEOPHRASTUs. You so seldom give play to your feelings
that it is quite delightful to hear you when you do.
I have a question to ask now of a purely speculative
character. You referred incidentally to a point on which
you dwelt before, about particular justice being concerned
with the distribution of external goods. Is it then confined
to man?
ARISTOTLE. It is obviously confined to those who possess
external goods, and I think we may go further and say that
it must be confined to those who can have too much or too
little of them. Both distributive and corrective justice rest,
I suppose, on the assumption that there is a certain amount
of things in the abstract good which are good also for the
B b
370
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
individual, and that this certain amount is best procured,
on the average, by producing and upholding the social
equilibrium. The man who upsets this equilibrium does
harm to another, in leaving him less goods than are good
for him, and harm also to himself in taking more than is
good for him. Now, if we could imagine external goods in
relation to the Gods at all, we could at all events not
suppose that they could be spoiled by any excess of them.
On the other hand, if we were to conceive of an infra-human
society consisting of incurably wicked beings, justice would
equally lose its meaning in relation to them, for no amount
at all of things absolutely good could by any possibility be
good for them. So that justice is an eminently human
thing.
But it is high time that we should attend to Nicomachus.
Now, my son, have your say.
NICOMACHUS. I was going to argue, father, that it was
possible for a man to be unjust to himself both in the wider
and in the narrower sense. But in respect to the latter, you
have already knocked the bottom out of my argument in
dealing with Eudemus. So I must restrict myself to the
former, in which justice is coextensive with the ordinances
of law. Now there's no law that orders a man to kill him-
self: so I suppose I may assume that that's against the law.
ARISTOTLE. You may, especially if you take law in the
ideal sense of all that reason would enjoin.
NICOMACHUS. My next step is that when a man, contrary
to law, does harm voluntarily and not by way of retaliation,
he is guilty of injustice. Is that granted?
ARISTOTLE. We'll grant it for the sake of argument.
NICOMACHUS. By voluntarily' I mean knowing the
patient, the instrument, and so on.
ARISTOTLE. You're determined to do things in due form.
NICOMACHUS. Of course, I must leave no loophole. Now
XXXI] CAN A MAN BE UNJUST TO HIMSELF? 371
comes another step. When a man kills himself in a fit of
passion he is acting contrary to right reason, and that's flat
in the teeth of law. Therefore he is committing injustice.
But injustice is relative. Therefore he must be unjust to
somebody. But there's no one else for him to be unjust to
except himself, for we'll suppose that he's an orphan and
a bachelor. Therefore he is unjust to himself. So, like
Theophrastus, I end up with Q.E.D.
ARISTOTLE. Bravo, my son !
But I'm afraid you've left
out of count one party interested in the transaction.
NICOMACHUS. Whom?
ARISTOTLE. The state.
injustice is committed.
It is against the state that the
He is robbing it possibly of a good
general or statesman, or, it may be, of a good carpenter or
cobbler, at all events of a citizen. And accordingly we find
that the state resents the proceeding, and marks its dis-
pleasure by some deprivation of civil rights. Sometimes it
does not allow his body to be buried at all. Here in Athens
a milder course is adopted, and the hand that has injured
the state is buried separately from the rest of the body.
We are precluded from saying that the injustice is done to
himself. For then he would be injured voluntarily, which
has already been shown to be impossible.
NICOMACHUS. That's the worst of coming last in the
argument.
ARISTOTLE. Never mind: your argument was well con-
structed, though it failed to take account of the amended
definition of injustice.
NICOMACHUS. You see it was constructed before I heard
that.
ARISTOTLE. But that made in favour of your argument,
not against it. For you supposed a man to kill himself in
a fit of passion, in which case he would be acting contrary
to his own wish.
Bb 2
372
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
NICOMACHUS. Then how can he be said to be injured
voluntarily? I'm getting rather in a muddle.
ARISTOTLE. Because it is possible voluntarily to act
against one's own wish. We proved long ago that acts due
to anger were voluntary.
Now, let us turn our attention to injustice in the particular
sense -the injustice which is co-ordinate with cowardice
and the other vices-and show that neither in this sense is
it possible for a man to be unjust to himself. If we were
to grant it, we should have a fine nest of contradictions.
(1) It would then be possible for the same thing to be
taken from and given to the same person at the same time.
But this is impossible. Therefore justice and injustice.
necessarily involve two persons.
(2) Again injustice, as we have seen, is something wilful
and aggressive. If a man is merely retaliating, he is not
held to be unjust. Therefore, if a man could be unjust to
himself, he would have to be at once agent and patient,
aggressor and victim, so that he would be both before and
after himself.
(3) In this case also we should have to admit what we
have already disproved, that a man can be injured
voluntarily.
(4) Besides there would be injustice without any par-
ticular injury. For, if you run through the various concrete
forms of injustice, you will find that no man can commit
them on himself. No man can be guilty of adultery with
his own wife, or commit burglary on his own premises, or
steal his own property.
We may consider now, I think, that we have disposed of
the proposition that a man can be unjust to himself. We
might, of course, have blocked the case by the third argu-
ment, which is as fatal in the case of particular as in that of
general injustice: but it would have been a pity not to
XXXI] CAN A MAN BE UNJUST TO HIMSELF? 373
let the proposition show us some sport before putting the
finishing stroke to it.
NICOMACHUS. Well, it's dead now, father, anyhow. I'm
afraid you hit it after it was down. But now, to make up
for the way in which I was suppressed, I would like to ask
a new question. Is it worse to do or to suffer injustice?
ARISTOTLE. They are both bad, my son. To have either
more or less than the mean is to violate the conditions
of healthy social existence. Nevertheless of the two evils
there is no question but that to do injustice is worse than
to suffer it. For that argues vice in the soul and calls for
moral reprobation -it argues vice, I say, either in the fullest
sense or in one approaching it, for you may have the act
without the state—whereas to be injured is no sign of vice
and calls for no blame.
NICOMACHUS. Does it not prove a man to be a coward?
ARISTOTLE. Not the fact of his being injured. The fact
of his not resisting injury under certain circumstances
might.
When I say that being injured is the lesser evil of the
two, of course I mean essentially and in itself. In its
consequences it may entail despair, madness, and death.
But these consequences are accidental. Now science con-
fines itself to the essential and can take no account of the
accidental. It pronounces a pleurisy a worse evil than
a stumble, though the consequences of the latter might be
that a man fell and was captured by the enemy, or even met
his death. You have drawn me away however from some-
thing which I was going on to say, and which I think
accounts for the fixed idea people have that a man can be
unjust to himself. Though in the strict sense of the term
justice cannot be said to subsist between oneself and oneself,
yet by metaphor and analogy it may be said to subsist.
between the several parts of oneself: but not every kind of
374
[LECT.
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
justice-only that which holds between a master and his
slaves or between a father and his family; for it is in these
relations that the rational part of the soul stands to the
irrational. In this metaphorical sense a man can be said to
be unjust to himself, since the parts may be forced by one
another in violation of their several impulses. The inferior
may be considered to have rights against the superior as
a subject against his ruler. The higher impulses may
tyrannize over the lower and the lower rebel against the
higher; in short, you may have all the play of passion and
politics within the city of man's soul, which we see carried
out on a larger scale in the state.
Now, before we part, I want to say a few words upon the
subject of equity and the equitable man, without which our
treatment of justice could hardly be considered to be
complete. We have to determine the relation of equity to
justice and of the equitable to the just. They appear on
inspection to be neither absolutely the same nor yet different
in kind. Sometimes we praise equitable conduct and the
man who exhibits it: indeed we have got into the way
of using the term metaphorically for 'good' in general,
showing plainly our opinion that the more equitable a thing
is the more good there is about it. On the other hand, on
a strictly logical view of the matter, we seem landed in an
absurdity when we say that the equitable is praiseworthy, if
it be something opposed to the just. For either the just is
not best or the equitable is not best, not being just; or, if
both are best, they must be the same. There you have
pretty nearly the whole grounds of the difficulty about
equitable conduct. The statements are all true in a way
and contain no real contradiction. For the equitable is just
as being better than justice of a certain sort, but is not better
than the just as being something different in kind from it.
The just and the equitable then are one and the same, and
XXXI] CAN A MAN BE UNJUST TO HIMSELF? 375
yet we can say that, though both are good, the equitable is
better. The apparent inconsistency arises from the fact
that the equitable indeed is just, but not as being legal
justice, but a rectification of legal justice. The reason why
the law requires rectification is that law is always universal,
whereas there are some subjects on which it is impossible
to be correct when speaking universally. In such cases the
law has to take what is true generally, or on the average,
and speak of it as though it held true universally; and this
it does, being well aware of the error that has thus been
allowed to creep in.
NICOMACHUS. Then is law always more or less wrong,
father?
ARISTOTLE. It is as right as it can be, my son. The fault
does not lie in the law, nor in the lawgiver, but in the nature
of the thing, because the matter of all action is necessarily
variable. Conduct is not like geometry: it always admits
of exceptions. When then the law makes some universal
statement, and some case falls under the law to which this
universal statement does not apply, it is right for equity to
step in to correct the mistakes and deficiencies of law, to say
what the lawgiver himself would have said, had he been there
present, and to do what, had he known of it, he would have
provided for in his legislation. And so, as I said, the
equitable is just and yet better than justice of a certain sort,
not of course than absolute justice, but better than the error
which arises from the universality of statement; and this we
may say is the essence of the equitable, that it is a rectifica-
tion of law where that fails owing to its universality. This
unavoidable shortcoming of law is the reason why all things
are not embraced under it: there are some things about
which it is impossible to legislate, so that they require
a special decree. For, to measure the indefinite, you
require an indefinite rule, like the leaden rule of Lesbian
376
LECTURES IN THE LYCEUM
architecture, which is not so rigid but that it adapts itself to
the form of the stones, as a bill does to the emergencies
of the moment. You will know what I mean, Theophrastus,
being a Lesbian.
So much then for the equitable. You can see that it is
at once just and better than a kind of justice.
The character also of the equitable man is plain from
what has been said. He is one who wills to act in the way
we have mentioned, and who does not strain the worst
construction of the law, but is content to forego his rights,
where he might call in the law to help him. It will never
be said in his case that the height of legality is the height
of injustice. This is the state of mind which we denominate
equity. It is the most refined justice, and not a state of
mind different from it.
NICOMACHUS. I like this equitable man, father. Will you
not tell us something more about him?
ARISTOTLE. Well, my son, he will pardon the infirmities
and frailties of human nature. He will not look so much
to the law as to the lawgiver, nor so much to the words of
the lawgiver as to his meaning, and not so much at the act
as at the intention of the offender, not at the part but at the
whole, not at a person's frame of mind at a given moment,
but at what it is always or generally. He will remember
the good that he has suffered rather than the evil, and the
benefits he has received rather than those he has bestowed.
He will rather endure to be injured than himself inflict an
injury, and will prefer to appeal to reason than to force.
He will seek a court of arbitration rather than a court of
justice, for the arbitrator looks to equity, but the judge only
to law. And this is why an arbitrator was first appointed,
in order that equity might flourish among men.
INDEX OF NAMES
The references are to the Lectures and the pages.
Achilles, xx. 201; XXIV. 264;
XXVIII. 317-21.
Acropolis, the, XXIX. 321.
Aeschylus, XV. 144.
Agamemnon, XIV. 131; XX. 202.
Agathon, XIX. 198; XXIV. 262.
Ajax, XXVIII. 317-21.
Alcmaeon, XIV. 132; XXXI. 361.
Amasis, XV. 151.
Amphipolis, xxx. 350.
Anaxagoras, V. 36.
Antipater, XVII. 171.
Antiphon, XXIV. 262.
Archelaus, I. 5.
Apis, II. II.
Archons, the, XV. 146.
Areopagus, the, XV. 144, 145.
Argives, the, XX. 209.
Arion, XXI. 220.
Aristippus, XIV. 131.
Aristophanes, VI. 53.
Artaxerxes, XX. 206.
Asia, XVII. 171.
Athenians, the, XXIV. 265.
Athens, X. 87; XXIII. 256; XXVIII.
314; XXIX. 321; XXXI. 371.
Bias, XXVII. 304.
Boeotarch, the, XX. 204.
Brasidas, xxx. 350.
Calypso, XIII. 123, 124.
Cebes, XIV. 136.
Celts, XIX. 196.
Cephalus, XV. 142 143.
Charybdis, XIII. 123.
Chiron, XIX. 198; XX. 204.
Cimon, XXIII. 251.
Circe, XIII. 123, 124.
Clearchus, XX. 206.
Corinth, xx. 209.
Coriscus, I. 4, 5; IX. 76; x. 86;
XV. 145.
Coronea, XX. 203.
Cresphontes, XV. 145.
Cretan law-givers, the, VII. 55.
Croesus, VI. 45.
Cynics, the, v. 35, 38; VI. 48;
XXI. 225.
Cythera, XXI. 221.
Delian inscription, the, V. 37.
Delphi, xxx. 355.
Democritus, XXI. 222.
Diomedes, XX. 201; XXXI. 365.
Egypt, II. II.
Eion, XVII. 171.
Empedocles, XXI. 222.
Ephors, the, XIX. 196.
Epicharmus, V. 40.
Epicydes, xxx. 355, 356.
Epimenides, IV. 29.
Eryxis, XXI. 221.
Eudoxus, VI. 52.
Euripides, XIV. 132; XV. 145;
XXVII. 304; XXXI. 361.
Eurydice, xx. 206.
378
INDEX OF NAMES
Glaucus, xxx. 355, 356; XXXI.
365.
Gods, the, XXIV. 260; XXVII. 302;
xxx. 356; XXXI. 370.
Gorgias, the, v. 34.
Graces, the, XXIX. 321.
Greece, XIV. 132.
Hector, XX. 201, 202.
Helen, XIII. 125.
Hellespont, the, XX. 206.
Heracleitus, IX. 74.
Hermes, XX. 204.
Herodotus, XIX. 196; XXX. 355.
Hesiod, II. 10; XXIX. 330.
Hiero, XXII. 238.
Homer, VI. 49; XIII. 123; XX.
200, 207; XXI.
XXI. 223 XXIII.
249; XXIV. 258, 264; xxx.
356; XXXI. 365.
Homeric heroes, XX. 202.
Homeric state, XVII. 175.
Iliad, the, XX. 202.
Indians, XVII. 167.
Ithaca, XXIV. 263.
Jews, the, XXIV. 269.
Lacedaemonian, XVII. 167.
Lacedaemonian lawgivers, the,
VII. 55.
Lacedaemonians, the, XX. 209;
XXIV. 265.
Leander, xx. 206.
Lesbian architecture, XXXI. 375,
376.
Leucippus, X. 90.
Locri, XXIX. 329.
Locrian, one-eyed, the, XXIX. 329.
Locrians, the, XXIX. 329.
Lyceum, III. 15.
Medea, XV. 145; XVI. 159.
Megarians, the, XI. 97, 99.
Melanippe, the, XXVII. 304.
Merope, XV. 145.
Metapontum, XX. 206.
Milo, X. 89.
Nemesis, XXVI. 294.
Neoptolemus, XIII. 116.
Odysseus, XX. 206; XXIII. 249;
XXIV. 263.
Oedipus, VI. 44; XV. 140.
Olympia, v. 35, 41; XXIII. 251.
Olympic games, II. 13.
Onomarchus, XX. 203.
Orestes, XIV. 132.
Orpheus, XX. 206.
Pan, XXVII. 306.
Pelias, XV. 145.
Penelope, XIV. 131.
Persia, XXX. 351.
Persian soldiers, the, XX. 202.
Phaedrus, the, XXVII. 306.
Philip of Macedon, XXVII. 301.
Philoctetes, XIII. 116.
Philoxenus, XXI. 21.
Pindar, VI. 53.
Piraeus, XVII. 171.
Pitchers, feast of, XXX. 344.
Pittacus, XIII. 123; XV. 142.
Plato, II. 9; III. 14; V. 34; VII.
56; IX. 71, 75; XI. 98; XIV.
136; XVIII. 183; XIX. 193; XXI.
222; XXIV. 269; XXIX. 337.
Platonists, the, III. 20, 22; XVIII.
182; XXVI. 290.
Polydamas, xx. 201.
Priam, v. 42; VI. 47; XIII. 125.
Procris, XV. 143.
Protagoras, I. 5; XVII. 174; XXVI.
294; XXX. 349.
Protagoreanism, VIII. 66.
Protagoreans, the, XXX. 351.
Psylli, the, XIX. 196.
Pythagorean mysticism, XXX. 344.
Pythagoreans, the, III. 18; x. 93 ;
XXIX. 329.
Rhadamanthys, XXIX. 330.
Sacred war, the, XX. 203.
Sardanapalus, II. II.
Scaean gates, XIII. 125.
Scylla, XIII. 123.
Scythians, XVII. 167.
Sicyonian, XX. 209.
INDEX OF NAMES
379
Simonides, XXII. 237, 238.
Sirocco, the, XIX. 197.
Smindyrides the Sybarite, II. II.
Socrates, V. 34, 35; XIX. 193; XX.
204, 205; XXII. 236; XXIV.
260, 269; XXV. 281; XXVII.
299, 306, 307; XXIX. 331;
XXX. 347.
the prayer of, XXVII. 306.
Solon, vi. 43, 48; XVIII. 179.
Sophists, the, XXVII. 307.
Sophocles, XXVII. 304.
Sparta, XXVII. 306; XXVIII. 314;
XXX. 356.
Spartan, XX. 209.
Speusippus, III. 18; XXIV. 269.
Sphinx, the, VI. 44.
Strepsiades, VI. 53.
Teiresias, VI. 44.
Thebans, XXIV. 265.
Themistocles, XXIII. 251.
Theognis, XI. 98;
XXVII. 304.
Thessaly, XVII. 171.
Thetis, XXIV. 264.
Trojans, XX. 201.
Tydides, XX. 201.
Ulysses, XIII. 124.
Xenocrates, XXI. 215.
XX.
204;
Zaleucus, XXIX. 329, 330.
Zeno the Eleatic, XIX. 194.
Zeus, XXIV. 264; XXVI. 294;
XXX. 350.
THE END
OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
Demy 8vo, price 5s.
ATTEMPTS AT TRUTH
B. H. BLACKWELL, OXFORD
Opinions of the Press
'Mr. St. George Stock, an accomplished Oxonian, who believes, though
not without having found many cases of imposture, in those manifesta-
tions of invisible agents which are classed generally under the head of
modern Spiritualism, has just published a book, called "Attempts at
Truth," which invents for sceptics a new horror, a horror such as the
scepticism of ancient times hardly ever conceived.
Spectator, Dec. 2, 1882.
•
>
-The
"When "Two Brothers" published their "Guesses at Truth," and
thereby indirectly founded the great publishing house of Macmillan,
the plan of republishing magazine articles had scarcely come into
vogue. Whether or not this plan, now so universal, is a gain to society
we will not pause to consider. One thing is clear; for an essay to get
published in a magazine it must, generally speaking, reach a level of
excellence which (as critics know to their sorrow) not all new books
attain to. And Mr. St. George Stock's " Attempts at Truth" (Trübner)
are far above the average of "padding." He quite needlessly depre-
cates the notion of having borrowed from Mr. Herbert Spencer; the
ideas which he works out (as well as his way of working) are in the air,
and are therefore the common property of every thinker; and when
scientists like Mr. Wallace go in for Spiritualism, Mr. Stock needs no
apology for endeavouring to point out the difference between the impos-
ture (of which he says he has had abundant experience) and the
mysterious something which he believes to be real. He is happy in his
phrases, as where he calls Arthur Hallam the "Marcellus of Modern
Literature"; scarcely so happy when he calls Swedenborg the "Colum-
bus of the world of mind"; and if few will agree with such trenchant
2
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
assertions as "Natural theology is hopelessly gone if we give up the
revelation," they are useful because they force us to shake off for a
moment the shroud of commonplace which enwraps us. But in spite of
all Mr. Stock's reasoning we think Spiritualism will never stand against
the Materialism for which he looks on it as a substitute.'-The Graphic,
Feb. 10, 1883.
This is, at least in part, a republication of essays which have
appeared in the Westminster and Theological Reviews, and may, there-
fore, be already known to some of our readers, but even to these the
essays will be welcome in their present form, as, although written at
different times, and under different conditions, they bear, as the writer
himself expresses it, " an organic unity" which cannot fail to place the
reader in a better position for mastering the subject than they could
possibly do when in the form of stray papers, in different magazines.
Carefully thought out, clearly and logically argued, full of terse
phraseology and telling imagery, these essays cannot fail, not only to be
greatly interesting, but also to lead those who peruse them to think out
many so-called problems for themselves, and even those who cannot
acquiesce in the writer's views must be quite willing to acknowledge his
ability as a thoughtful and conscientious writer.'-Public Opinion,
Jan. 27, 1883.
'The destructive side of Mr. Stock's essays is more in keeping with
the bent of his mind, and those whose business it is to study writings of
the kind will find that he often turns his weapons against other forms
of scepticism than his own, and criticises them shrewdly enough;
though his attempts at truth itself end only in failures.'-The Literary
Churchman, Feb. 2, 1883.
'Any one, then, who comes forward to challenge the exhaustiveness of
the rival theses which present themselves to our understanding on any
subject ought to be welcome, always supposing that he knows what he
is talking about, and can state his case in intelligible language. These
conditions are certainly fulfilled by a writer who calls himself St. George
Stock, who has undertaken a task compared with which that of the
original owner of his prénom was a mere trifle.'-The National
Reformer, May 13, 1883.
""
Attempts at Truth (Trübner & Co.) is a collection of essays
contributed by Mr. St. George Stock to the Westminster Review and
other periodicals. The author has done well in bringing these essays
together in a compendious form, for they exhibit a clearness of thought
and expression and an impartiality of judgment, which bespeak for the
writer an analytical yet comprehensive mind.'-The Secular Review,
Dec. 9, 1882.
'The essays in this very thoughtful book have, for the most part,
appeared before as review articles. They are on such permanently
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
3
important topics as "What is right?" "Hume on Miracles,
"Positive
» “ What
view of Spiritualism and the Philosophy of Force," "Theism,
is Reality?" "Berkeley and Positivism," "Where is Heaven?" The
remarkable article on "Theism" is from the Westminster Review, and
attracted a considerable amount of attention at the time of its publica-
tion. Mr. Stock, in this volume, is everywhere scholarly, independent,
keen, instructive.-The Truthseeker, June, 1883.
'As far as may be, we have allowed Mr. Stock to speak for himself.
The reader will find him worth the hearing. We may not always agree
with what he says, but we cannot but admire the way in which he says it.
Indeed, it would be hard to decide whether most to praise in our author
the clearness of the reasoning, or the singular felicity of the style. There
is no obscure argument, and hardly a slip-shod sentence, throughout the
book. Enough has been said here to show that there is much in the
book that is fruitful and suggestive; much also that is of permanent
value. May it have as many readers as it deserves.'-The Psycholo-
gical Review, December, 1882.
'An adequate review of these treatises would carry us too deeply and
extensively into the subjects comprised in them. Nor would it be easy
to condense an author who has himself the merit of condensing and
bringing to a logical focus most of the controversies he deals with.
Mr. St. George Stock is nearly always on the highest level of the argu-
ment, which he answers, or states, at its best, and in its latest recognised
development. His analysis is invariably intelligible. and usually com-
plete, and now and then we have to thank him for striking contributions
of original thought. And nowhere do we find the results of modern
speculation in several important departments set forth with more succinct
clearness, or in a more agreeable literary style.'-Light, March 3,
1883.
Attempts at Truth," by St. George Stock. London, Trübner & Co.,
pp. 248.-This volume consists of sixteen thoughtful, interesting and
striking essays, which deal with some of the profoundest problems of
the day, such as right, reality, moral obligation, theism and spiritualism.
This latter subject is discussed with great fulness, generous candour, and
argumentative skill. The author is familiar with the whole literature of
his subject, he has quite a talent for this line of investigation-he has
marked powers of reasoning, and a graceful, telling, persuasive, literary
style. The objects are discussed in a calm, courteous and philosophical
spirit, and the work altogether is both interesting and fresh, instructive,
and thought-provoking. It is a most valuable and welcome contribution
to our current controversies. The author is a fearless thinker, a skilful
dialectician, and a charming writer; hence this volume ought to have
a wide circulation.'-The Battley News, Feb. 6, 1886.
""Les Tentatives vers la vérité," par Georges Stock (Londres, Trübner)
sont une œuvre, comme notre époque en voit éclore malheureusement
4
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
un si grand nombre, une œuvre d'agnostique, suivant le vocabulaire
anglais, et de positiviste suivant le vocabulaire français. M. Stock
s'efforce de laver son école de l'accusation de détruire la morale
commune et d'être impuissante à en fonder une nouvelle.'-Bibliographie
Catholique, Paris, July, 1883.
•
'Here, at last, has arisen in Oxford a philosopher who has something
fresh to say, and says it in a tongue understanded of the people. .
Alone, or nearly alone, among men who have speculated upon fun-
damentals from under Alma Mater's shadow, Mr. St. George Stock looks
not back but forwards. Academic models have tinged his shape rather
than his substance, and academic paralysis of the soul's free play has
not touched him.'-Oxford Magazine, Jan. 24, 1883.
Before coming together in book form, most of these essays made
their appearance in various periodicals. They are certainly most read-
able, and five years of companionship with the world have not made
them in any way stale. The author does not seek to win favour by
always getting on the popular side of questions. For instance, he
attaches importance to spiritualism, and gives a degree of credit to its
phenomena.'-The Cosmopolitan, Jan. 1888.
Crown 8vo, price 3s. 6d.
DEDUCTIVE LOGIC
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., LONDON
Opinions of the Press
'This is an attempt to embody in a clear, curt, and consistent shape
the floating system of logic current in the Oxford Schools. It is the
work of an ex-Moderator, and the result of long experience in teaching
the subject. As the Author's aim has been to produce a text-book
which should carry on the tradition of Oxford logic, any violent change
has naturally been avoided, while at the same time he has not scrupled
to introduce now and then what seemed legitimate corrections or exten-
sions of received doctrines. The complex proposition and complex
syllogism have been treated with greater fulness than usual, with a view
to showing the identity of the laws of inference, whatever be the nature
of the proposition to which they are applied. The chapter on Fallacies
is a reversion to Aristotle, and a protest against the use of his names to
denote things other than he meant by them. The book concludes with
copious exercises and an index of technical terms.'-Longmans' Notes
on Books, Feb. 28, 1889. (Statement by the Author.)
'Mr. St. George Stock's manual of Deductive Logic (London: Long-
mans, Green, & Co.) is a valuable addition to the class-books. The
author states his aims as clearness and consistency, and it is only fair to
say that he has attained them with a marked degree of success, having
regard to the difficulties of his subject. The work makes an excellent
elementary text-book; though an advanced student could not but clarify
and refresh his knowledge by reading so clear and neatly reasoned a
handbook.'-The Scotsman, Monday, Jan. 28, 1889.
'Mr. Stock is familiar with the preparation of pupils for University
examinations, and his book is a clear and consistent exposition of his
subject.'-Sheffield Daily Telegraph, Feb. 1, 1889.
'Handbooks of Logic are not few, but this addition to the number
will be welcomed by all students of the art of reasoning. It is well
arranged and well written, so that any schoolboy by its aid can acquire
a more accurate knowledge of his subject than could be attained by the
laborious study of many more bulky and more knotty works. By a
graphic system of illustration the difficulties that beset the student are
removed, and the mind responds at once to the assistance which the
diagrams afford. There are many excellent features in the book, and
despite a few trifling defects it can be warmly recommended.'- The
Freeman's Journal, Friday, Feb. 8, 1889.
CC
6
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
'Mr. St. George Stock's Deductive Logic is a book written by a man
who has had plenty of experience in teaching the subject. Satisfactory
as it is on the whole, it seems occasionally-in its later chapters-to
make too much of the various complex forms in which an argument may
be stated. So far as the student is concerned, the best exercise for him
is the analysis of all forms of syllogism into the simplest. Without
saying a word about the necessity for another text-book on purely formal
logic, we may admit that this one is as good as any for the purpose
intended. It is a book to be gone over with a tutor or lecturer at the
first, and will be thereafter useful to refresh the memory. The author
does not enter into the questions relating to the quantification of the
predicate except so far as to admit its "mechanical advantages." His
very just remark is that "the object of the logician is not to invent an
ingenious system, but to arrive at a true analysis of thought.' On the
deeper problems connected with this matter he says nothing. There is
a most admirable set of exercises in each chapter affixed to the body of
the work.'-Saturday Review, Feb. 16, 1889.
""
"
'The examples are very apt, and occasionally of a nature to be easily
remembered from their humour. The "quantification of the predicate
is explained in a way that largely removes the mystery usually thrown
around that subject; and a full and intelligent account of the "Falla-
cies" is given in a very moderate compass. This is also an excellent
collection of exercises, which enhances the value of the book for school
and University purposes.'-The Glasgow Herald, Feb. 28, 1889.
፡
Deductive Logic, in the opinion of a distinguished logician, is one of
the subjects best adapted to the purpose of the examiner. It forms,
says Jevons, a sort of intellectual treadmill, by which the exertion of
power can be accurately measured. Among the constructors of such
machinery Mr. Stock holds a high place. He has chosen an excellent
model, upon which he has superadded all the newest spokes and cogs.
He may be congratulated on the successful attainment of the purpose
which he thus describes.'-The Academy, March 2, 1889.
'Students and teachers of logic will prize this book for the evident
marks of teaching power which are scattered throughout it. The lucid
explanations, the careful division of the subject, the grouping to assist
the memory, the judicious use of diagrams, and the wealth of examples
and exercises, will render it a popular class-book.'-Schoolmaster,
March 2, 1889.
'Among recent educational works we heartily welcome Mr. St.
George Stock's "Deductive Logic" (Longmans & Co.). He is as
lucid a writer as he is a lecturer, and his logic should be extremely use-
ful in schools and colleges.'- Yorkshire Weekly Post, May 18, 1889.
'This work claims to be thoroughly representative of the present
state of Logic in the Oxford schools, and is an outgrowth of the au-
thor's seventeen years' experience in teaching the subject. Much fuller
in the treatment of its department of the science than are the well-known
works of Jevons, McCosh and Atwater, its peculiar merits are its ex-
plicitness of statement, its clearness and conciseness in definition, its
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
7
numerous and accurate tabulated analyses, its freshness and aptness of
illustration, and its ample and ingenious exercises. The author pre-
sents the best exposition we have seen of the value and the independence
of the three fundamental laws of thought; his resolution of the schism-
causing difficulties about the nature of universals is very happy; his
treatment of the vitally important subject of Immediate Inference is ex-
ceedingly full and satisfactory; and he has elaborated, perhaps with
more exhaustiveness than is useful, the special rules for each of the four
figures and the reductions of conditional, disjunctive, and dilemmatic
syllogisms. We note an error of minor logical importance, where the
author holds that the mind cannot be at once actor and spectator of its
action; and another, in the chapter on "The Division of Things," in
which he teaches that substance is known only as a collection of attri-
butes. The work will take place in the first rank of modern logics, and
will be specially useful to teachers and advanced students of the science.'
-Wooster Quarterly, U.S. A., April, 1889.
'It is all that any one needs for a mastery of the principles of the
science, and is specially adapted for skilful, thorough teaching of the
art of reasoning.'-New England Journal of Education, April 18, 1889.
'Mr. Stock's work bears evident traces of the experience as a teacher
of logic which is referred to in his preface. It contains a clear and full
exposition of the main doctrines of the traditional formal logic, with a
considerable amount of acute and ingenious discussion of special topics.
In particular, the theory of Inference, including the various forms of
syllogism, the backbone of the traditional logic, is handled with great
fulness and success. The book is brightly written, and accompanied by
some well-chosen and happy examples for exercise. As an introduction
to the ordinary logic it deserves warm commendation.'-Manchester
Guardian, Jan. 18, 1889.
'Turning to Mr. Stock's manual, we find little that would be un-
familiar to the modern reader; but many points of obscurity and
ambiguity are cleared up in the course of the work. Thus, in the
division of Terms and Propositions, the principle of dichotomy is very
thoroughly applied, so that any case has its clearly assigned position in
each of the divisions. By distinguishing between original and acquired
intension, the author helps the student to avoid some of the ambiguities
and entanglements that controversies on proper names have raised.
But in the treatment of the law of inverse variation of extension and
intension this distinction is dropped, and the law is, therefore, either
ambiguous or false. The treatment of Predicables, of Definition and of
Division is, to those who are satisfied with the nominalistic view on
these points, a model of clearness, precision and exhaustiveness. The
author's innovations are almost invariably well founded and well
supported.'-W. E. Johnson, in Mind, July, 1889.
'The small and unpretentious volume on Deductive Logic is one of
the most satisfactory works of its kind which we have had the good
fortune to meet with. The subject is one of recognised importance, not
only to students at the University, but to all who desire to form sound
8
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
conclusions on the many social, religious, and political questions which
now occupy the public mind. But in spite of this, an acquaintance with
its principles and methods is by no means so widespread as one could
wish, and in some quarters there is a disposition to regard its study as
too recondite and abstract for minds which are chiefly concerned with
the affairs of practical life. This state of things, we sometimes think,
is due in a great measure to the character of the text-books devoted to
its exposition, many of which appear to have been written with any and
every object save that of affording the reader a clear insight into its
utility and the universality of its methods. In the work before us, how-
ever, we have a treatise on Deductive Logic which is at once worthy of
the great importance of the subject and deserving of all the attention
which the student can bring to bear upon it. The author's intention
has been to make it as thoroughly representative of the present state of
the logic of the Oxford schools as any of the text-books of the past, and
in this he has been eminently successful. The qualities aimed at before
all others have been clearness and consistency, and these are the qualities
which shine forth most conspicuously on every page of the volume.
Seldom, indeed, have the purposes of an author been so fully realised.
as they are here. From the volume itself abundant evidence could be
adduced of the truth, that it is the teacher of experience who alone can
feel and satisfactorily meet the difficulties that beset the path of the
beginner, and all who take up the study of logic with this text-book as
a guide will feel grateful to the author for utilising his experience in its
production. Step by step the student is led on from terms and proposi-
tions to the various kinds of inferences, the general and special rules of
syllogism, the four figures and all that relates to them, and so on to
trains of reasoning and fallacies. The exposition, which is broken up
into short but terse, clear paragraphs, is unusually exact and logical,
and is itself an admirable illustration of the logician's art. To add to
the utility of the volume, a large body of exercises are appended,
which are carefully adapted to test the student's knowledge of the
chapters to which they respectively refer, and together form a good
introduction to the practical applications of the subject.'-The Leeds
Mercury, Wed., Jan. 29, 1890.
'Another school-book which may be appropriately mentioned at the
beginning of the academic year is Mr. St. George Stock's Deductive
Logic. Although it has been published some time, it is not nearly so
well known as it deserves. It is about the same size as Jevons's well-
known Elementary Lessons, and presents features somewhat similar to
those of that classic. Its conspicuous merits are clearness and order,
and a certain freshness, such as might be expected from the author of
the remarkable essays published under the title of Attempts at Truth.
These qualities, and the copious exercises it contains, render it an
admirable class-book.'-The Inquirer, Oct.
4, 1890.
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