In dealing with the nature and authority of moral rules in my last lecture, I tried to show, on the negative side, that the method of isolation used by many contemporary ethical theorists will not account for the moral rules which are regarded as right by primitives; and, on the positive side, that these rules derive their authority from the fact that they are recognised as being involved in, or conditions of, the realisation of the conception of the good life entertained by the people who regard them as right; and I argued that in these respects what is true of primitives is true generally, of all men and all moral rules. In the present lecture, I propose to follow the same line of treatment in dealing with the moral ideal, considered as the system of goods or states of affairs which we try to realise in the moral life, and to develop my theory by contrasting certain widely held contemporary conceptions with those suggested by the anthropological evidence regarding primitives. The main questions which we have to consider are: How is the conception of the moral ideal built up? How are its elements related to one another? How do men come to know that these elements, and the whole which in their interrelation they constitute, are good; and what sort of knowledge have they of their goodness? In dealing with these questions I shall first outline the answers given by the contemporary writers who rely on the method of isolation. Secondly, I shall compare their answers with those suggested by our consideration of primitive morality, partly in order to bring out by contrast the nature of the latter, and partly to show that the method of isolation will not account for our knowledge of the good any more than for our knowledge of the right, that it will not yield any better results when applied to the moral ideal, considered as the pursuit of ends or the realisation of values, than it does as an account of moral rules. Thirdly, I shall try to show that the conception of the moral ideal to which the method of isolation leads has grave defects even as an account of civilised morality; and, finally, I shall explain in more detail the conception of the moral ideal suggested by the anthropological evidence, and try to show that it applies to all morality, primitive and civilised alike.

Those who use the method of isolation in dealing with the nature and knowledge of the good hold that there are certain sorts of things, experiences or states of affairs which, when considered in isolation, are directly apprehended as intrinsically good, and that we build up our conception of the moral ideal or the sort of life that is worth while by adding such goods together. They contend that the moral ideal can be analysed into units which, when considered without reference to any consequences they may have or any context in which they occur, are apprehended as good—good being regarded as a simple, indefinable quality which belongs to such units in their own right, a quality which belongs to the things which have it independently of any context, and which, therefore, they retain in every context. The test which they apply to discover whether anything has intrinsic goodness is to consider whether it would still be regarded as good if it existed quite alone, or if there were nothing else in the universe but itself. They, of course, admit that such things never do in fact exist quite alone, but they hold that to treat them as if they did, in isolation from their context and causes and conditions and consequences, is the only way to discover their intrinsic goodness, if they have any. And if anything has intrinsic goodness it retains it in every context or whole of which it forms part. Other things or states of affairs or experiences, which have no intrinsic goodness, may have instrumental goodness because they are the means to such intrinsic goods. Intrinsic goods themselves may also be instrumentally good, because they have results which are intrinsically good; but their intrinsic value is independent of any such results, however good the latter may be.

But intrinsic goodness as the opposite of instrumental goodness, and so as meaning good as an end or good for its own sake or good independent of consequences, is not necessarily identical with intrinsic goodness in the sense of good if it existed quite alone. For in the latter sense intrinsic goodness is independent of context as well as consequences; and some writers1 who use the term in the former sense, i.e. to describe goodness independently of consequences, do not hold that all things which are intrinsically good in their sense would be good if they existed quite alone, or if there were nothing else in the universe. They find it difficult to be sure that under such circumstances they would have any goodness. The goodness which they attribute to intrinsic goods is independent of consequences only, and not of context also; and therefore the things which have it may not retain it in every context. But the stricter sense of the term, good independently of both context and consequences or good if it existed quite alone, is the logical implication of the method of isolation, and it is with this sense of the term that we are therefore concerned.

According to those who use the term intrinsic good in this sense, there are elements or units in the good life which are not only distinguishable, but so far isolable that final or incorrigible judgements of value can be passed on them in their isolation. The goodness of these intrinsic goods can be measured and compared and added; and the goods can be arranged on a scale of value. The whole value of life consists in the amount of such good which it contains. The conception of the moral ideal is arrived at by combining such goods; and the principle which guides the moral agent in deciding what he ought to do is: ‘produce as much intrinsic good as possible’, or ‘of all the acts open to you, do the one which would produce (or which you believe would produce) the greatest sum of intrinsic good’.

Now this conception of the moral ideal or the good life is diametrically opposed to that which, according to the anthropologists, is entertained by primitive peoples. For, as we have seen again and again, the anthropologists are never tired of emphasising the intimate interrelation and interlocking of the different goods which a particular primitive people are trying to realise. Their conception of the moral ideal or the good life does not consist of a series of independent goods, each of which can be considered in isolation and have a final judgement of value passed on it by itself. The states of affairs, the activities, the experiences which they regard as good form an interconnected whole, the parts of which are valued not as independent items on a scale but as elements in a context, with the rest of which they do or do not harmonise. They are integrated into patterns or systems of compossible or functionally interdependent goods. The different goods which they try to realise are not just added to one another. We cannot alter one or take it away or add another and leave the rest as they were, however desirable the results of so doing might seem when separate items are considered in isolation. For these items are considered by the person who lives the life and passes judgements of value on them, not in isolation but in the context of a way of life. The judgements of value which he passes on the different items, and the extent to which, and the ways in which, they should be realised, are determined, and can only be understood, when they are considered in their context.

No doubt there are things which, when described in quite general terms, all peoples may be said to regard as good. And these include not only what we usually call the higher goods such as personal affection, enjoyment of beauty, health, freedom and religious peace of mind which tend to be regarded as intrinsic, but also very humble goods such as food and shelter and a mate. This is so because human nature and its needs are everywhere the same; and what satisfies a need, when considered simply in relation to the need, is regarded as good. But none of these goods is to be pursued always and to be realised in every context. When we ask, then, to what extent and in what ways they should be promoted or produced, we find the answers varying from people to people; and the answer which a particular people give with regard to a particular item cannot be understood by considering it alone, but only by considering it in relation to the system of goods of which they approve. The detailed evidence for this I gave in my account of the functional interdependence of the different states of affairs which the primitive peoples, whose ways of life I selected for detailed description, regard as good; and it is not necessary to repeat it here. It can be found in abundance on almost every page of any recent work on social anthropology. If this evidence is accepted, and it seems to me very difficult not to accept it, it means that the application of the method of isolation to the value-judgements of primitives distorts the facts, rather than helps us to understand them; and this suggests that any theory of the nature of the moral ideal arrived at by means of this method can at best have only a limited and conditional validity.

Here, then, we have two diametrically opposed views about the nature of the moral ideal and the principle or principles of moral judgement, the one arrived at by contemporary ethical writers who use the method of isolation, the other suggested by the anthropological evidence about primitive morality. The two views differ also in their accounts of the way in which we get knowledge of the moral characteristics of things, and of the sort of knowledge and the degree of certainty which we can hope to get in our moral judgements; and this difference applies to judgements both of goodness and of rightness, i.e. whether we are concerned with states of affairs or sorts of acts, with the kinds of things which are good or the sorts of rules which are right. Before considering which of them is the more adequate, I want to make some aspects of the contrast between them clearer by comparing the differences between them with those between mathematics and natural science, where we get the same contrast in a more familiar form. This comparison seems to be specially appropriate, because those who claim that in morality we can get direct apprehension or insight, the results of which can be expressed in incorrigible judgements, rely explicitly on the analogy of mathematics. According to the view of the anthropologists, on the other hand, the procedure of the moral agent in arriving at his moral judgements seems to resemble the empirical method, and the degree of certainty at which he arrives the fallible conclusions of the natural scientist.

Those who rely on the method of isolation point out that in mathematics we have more certainty about the truth of isolated propositions than we have of the way in which the propositions are connected together in the system of mathematical knowledge as a whole. The truth of the isolated propositions is apprehended in ‘crystal-clear intuitions’. However these propositions are combined, each retains its initial character of self-evident certainty. Similarly, they contend, in our ethical knowledge we find intrinsic goods and rules of prima facie right which have such definiteness and precision in their isolation that we can apprehend their characters in self-evident intuitions. The moral ideal or the conception of the good life is arrived at by combining such units, whether intrinsic goods or rules of right or a combination of both; but, however they are combined, each retains its character of goodness or rightness. If we are to have truth and certainty at all in our value-judgements, we must get it in the isolated units. If we do not have it from the outset we shall not get it at all. Ross states the position and the analogy on which it is based quite explicitly. “Both in mathematics and in ethics”, he writes, “we have crystal-clear intuitions from which we build up all that we can know about the nature of numbers and the nature of duty. . . . We do not read off our knowledge of particular branches of duty from an ideal of the good life, but build up our ideal of the good life from intuitions into particular branches of duty.”2 And again, “we do not start with a general notion of the ideal life of a community, and read off, as consequences that can be deduced from this, that promises should be kept, and the like. Rather, because we see that promises ought to be kept, that people should make restitution for the ills they have done, and render good for the good they have received, as well as promoting the general welfare, we build up from these intuitive insights the conception of an ideal community in which people would do these things, and do them because they know them to be right.”3

Similar considerations apply both to the apprehension of isolated intrinsic goods and to the way in which they are combined; but I need not labour the point: the analogy with mathematics is not only clear but often explicitly stated. So widespread, indeed, is the use of the mathematical analogy that even Joseph, who defends a view of the moral ideal much more akin to that which the anthropological evidence suggests, accepts it. The mathematician, he writes, “may come to know, independently of one another, many facts between which he may later discover necessary connection. Indeed, in this field it is hard to doubt that all facts are mutually involved, though we cannot see this. Some have urged that, if this is so, the apprehension of the facts in their isolation is not properly to be called knowledge of them; we do not really know anything unless we know it in all its linkages. Perhaps there is a parallel here between Ethics and Mathematics. We think we know of certain actions separately that we ought to do or forbear them. But if the obligation is grounded in some goodness or badness which the action would have, and which is not independent of its being so linked with other actions as to make good or bad the form of life to which it and they would belong, it might be said that we could not really know our obligation till we viewed the action in these linkages.”4 But the language which Joseph uses suggests that the parallel between ethics and mathematics is not so close as the argument assumes. In reference to mathematics, he writes, “a man may come to know, independently of one another, many facts”; whereas of our moral knowledge he says “we think we know of certain actions (in isolation) that we ought to do or to forbear them”.5 Others make no such qualification of the finality of our isolated moral judgements. For them the parallel with mathematics is complete: we not only think we know, but in fact we do know that certain things are intrinsically good and certain rules prima facie right.

Now contrast the procedure of the natural scientist with that of the mathematician, and let us see the view of the process of building up the moral ideal and the degree of certainty which we can hope to get in our moral judgements, if we think that natural science provides a closer analogy to the procedure of the moral agent than mathematics does. The data of the natural sciences consist of observed phenomena. A phenomenon considered by itself may be capable of more than one interpretation, and the natural scientist is not satisfied that he has correctly interpreted it till he sees how it is connected with other phenomena according to a law. The more comprehensive the system into which a given phenomenon, as interpreted in a particular way, fits, the more certain he is that he has correctly interpreted it. In other words, no certainty attaches to the interpretation of the datum in isolation, but a high degree of certainty attaches to the judgement regarding it, when it is considered as an element in a comprehensive and consistent system of data. Here we have a much higher degree of certainty at the end, when the data are considered in their interrelation, than we have at the outset, when they are considered in isolation. To use Joseph's language, the scientist may think that he has correctly interpreted the datum in isolation, but he cannot be sure till he has succeeded in connecting it with others in a coherent system; and he may find that, when he so considers it, he may have to reject his first interpretation.

Now if we interpret the thinking of the moral agent on the analogy of the procedure of the natural scientist, we would represent it somewhat as follows. When we consider experiences, states of affairs or sorts of acts by themselves in isolation, our estimate of their value is the result not of crystal-clear intuitions but of fallible judgements of varying degrees of probability. Our judgements of value may, therefore, have to be modified or even reversed when we consider the facts to which they relate in their context, as parts of a purpose, or a system of purposes, or a way of life. We cannot pass a final judgement of goodness or rightness on a state of affairs or an act, nor can we understand the judgement of value of another on it, unless we take account of the system of acts or states of affairs of which it forms part; and the more comprehensive the system in relation to which we consider it, the more certain our judgement on it is likely to be.

According to this view, we do not begin with either of the alternatives suggested by the analogy of mathematics and propounded by Ross as being apparently the only alternatives open to us. We begin neither with ‘crystal-clear intuitions’, whether of the form of apprehension of simple qualities or of insight into necessary connections, nor with a clear conception of an ‘ideal community from which we can read off as consequences which can be deduced from it’ particular judgements of value. Neither are the premises of our moral reasoning incorrigible judgements nor are its processes the tracing of logical implications. At no stage in it do we get demonstrative certainty or necessary judgements. Nevertheless our judgements of value are not irrational or arbitrary. For according to the analogy of natural science we may arrive at conclusions for which we can advance reasons, and some of which we can see to be more reasonable than others, even though none of them is infallible or incorrigible.6

Let me try to put the difference between the procedures of the mathematician and the moral agent, and the appropriateness of the method of isolation to the former and its inappropriate-ness to the latter, in another way. Consider the mathematician trying to solve a problem and the moral agent trying to discover his duty. Suppose each of them has arrived at what he believes to be the correct solution of his problem, and asks the opinion of a friend on the result. The mathematician will naturally consult another mathematician, and the latter will check each step in the argument by which the conclusion is arrived at separately, and, if he is not satisfied with the result, he will point out the specific step in which the error or non-sequitur occurs. But the wise man to whom the moral agent appeals for advice will proceed quite differently. He will try to look at the situation in which the moral agent finds himself as a whole, try to take account of all the relevant factors and hold them before his mind at once. If he wants to question the result at which the agent has arrived, he cannot put his finger on any one specific point at which he has made a mistake. All he can do is to ask whether he has taken certain factors into consideration, e.g. his relations to A, his previous commitments to B, the consequences and collateral effects of the proposed action on C and D, the strain to which it will subject E (who may be the agent himself), and so on. None of these considerations is by itself decisive, but all of them have to be taken into consideration.

Now the procedure of the morally wise man is as rational as that of the mathematician, but its rationality is of a different kind. They are both processes which only a rational being could perform; and just as in the former the conclusion follows from the premises, so in the latter the discovery of what is right, which is also the determination of the agent's duty, emerges from the consideration of the whole situation, but it does not follow with the demonstrative certainty with which the mathematical conclusion does. The result never amounts to knowledge. Moral wisdom consists more in recognising what premises are relevant, seeing that they are all taken into consideration and each given its due weight than in seeing how a conclusion follows from a few premises. Thus, while the procedure of the moral agent is rational, the method of isolation does not apply to any part of it, and its result is never infallible.

What we begin with, according to this view, is human nature and its needs. Now human beings not only have desires rooted in their natural needs but they are also self-conscious and social beings. The objects or states of affairs which would satisfy a given desire, or the activities in which it would find expression, when considered by themselves in relation to that desire, may appear good; but they may be incompatible with the states of affairs or activities required to satisfy other desires of the same self-conscious individual. Accordingly, as the result of the interaction of desires in the experience of the self-conscious individual, he builds up the conception of a complex state of affairs or a system of activities which are necessary for the compossible satisfaction of systems of desires, and finally of the desiring self as a whole. The states of affairs or activities which enter into, or are required by, this system are regarded as really good; and those which conflict with it are regarded as really bad, however strong may be the desire for them. So far as the individual is self-conscious and judges reflectively, he does not pass judgement on states of affairs or activities in isolation, but in their interrelation.

Nor is this all. Man is not only self-conscious but social. He not only requires the co-operation of others for the satisfaction of most even of his non-social needs, but he desires the friendship and the welfare of others directly. And so in building up his idea of the state of affairs or system of activities which he regards as on the whole good he has to take account both of his social desires and of the desires of other people. The resulting conception, therefore, takes the form, at least in part, of patterns of co-operative behaviour between individuals embodied in a way of life in which the requirements of the desires of different individuals are adjusted to one another, and the ways in which these desires should be satisfied are determined accordingly. The only final justification of the value of a state of affairs or an experience or an act is to be found in its being an element in, or a condition of, the realisation of such a way of life. The judgement of value on the way of life itself is final but not infallible. It cannot be justified by considering its object in a wider context; but it may have to be modified because the way of life to which it relates may be an imperfect expression of the ideal for which it stands. It may be lacking in the comprehensiveness or the internal consistency required to satisfy the nature and needs of man. The only judgements of value which seem to be unmediated and self-justifying are (1) the judgement that what is required by the way of life which is on the whole good is obligatory, and (2) the judgement that the doing of what is obligatory because it is obligatory is morally good. These judgements express self-evident intuitions in the sense that a person who is confronted, whether in actual practice or in ideal experiment, with the situations to which they relate cannot help acknowledging them. Unless so much at least is taken as self-evident, it is difficult to see how there can be such a thing as morality or how moral considerations can arise at all.

I tried in earlier lectures to describe some aspects of the exceedingly complex process of integration and adjustment, which is involved in arriving at the conception of the way of life in the light of which final judgements of value are passed, as it is found (1) in the personality of the individual, where desires and systems of desire are mutually modified through their interaction as the experiences of one self-conscious agent; (2) in the individual's personal ideal, which is the objective counterpart of the unity of the self as self-conscious; and (3) in the interaction of the institutions which constitute the way of life of a people; and we have seen examples of the results of this adjustment and integration in the ways of life of the primitive peoples whom we considered in detail. Accordingly, all I need do here is to call attention to one or two points which emerge from our consideration of primitive morality.

(1) Even if, as I believe, this process of adjustment and integration plays as important a part in building up the personal ideals of individuals and the social ideals of communities among civilised peoples as it does among primitives, it is easier to see its operation in the smaller, more closely knit primitive societies, where the differences between the personal ideals of individuals and between the personal and social ideal are less marked than in large-scale modern societies.

(2) The individual finds the way of life of his people already in existence and embodied in institutions, whose forms represent the results of the experience of many generations of his ancestors; and it is in response to them and under their influence that he forms his personal ideal. The extent to which he enters into the spirit of this way of life and grasps its pattern as a whole varies from individual to individual. Many accept the forms of behaviour of their society more or less unconsciously. For some of them life is just one thing after another without much conscious unity of plan or purpose. They recognise their various duties through the promptings of their social environment; and they do not engage in much reflection, still less in much original moral thinking. Others reflect and deliberate and, in their deliberations, have before their minds considerable sections, if not the whole, of the pattern of their way of life. For some, again, the integration of the pattern is more on the emotional and conative side; for others it is more on the intellectual side; but the formal ideal, that which will finally satisfy, is a harmonious development of all three.

(3) The degree and the manner of integration of the way of life varies considerably from individual to individual and from people to people. It is seldom, if ever, a logically coherent whole. It is generally little more than the interlocking of patterns of behaviour or institutions through their interaction in the ideas and habits and feelings of the members of the society who entertain it. And even when the way of life has a high degree of integration, the principle on which it is unified, and the scale of values which it embodies, may be inadequate to express the moral ideal which it is an attempt to express. For unity of pattern may be achieved by subordinating all other interests and values to one interest, or one system of interests, in a way which is inconsistent with the realisation of the good of the self or of the community as a whole, or which may be incapable of being extended beyond the bounds of the group or applied to the relations between all men without denying the humanity of some of them.

(4) Such integration as we get is seldom consciously planned. It is more the result of practical disappointments and partial successes in actual living than of conscious thinking, though many of the results could be, and some of them are, brought about with less trouble through pre-living in imagination or ideal experiment rather than by the wasteful process of trial and error. In the main, however, it is what has been in practice found good but incomplete that points the way of advance; and the formal ideal which people are trying to express in their embodied or operative ideals exists in many of their minds as a sense of frustration and dissatisfaction with things as they are, rather than before them as a consciously entertained ideal guiding their efforts.

But however incomplete and imperfect may be the integration of the ways of life of many peoples, and however partial and inadequate may be the grasp of many among them of its pattern as a whole, the fact that men are self-conscious and that the different elements and aspects of their way of life meet and interact in their experience, tends to produce a certain congruity or affinity between the parts of their operative ideals; and the ideal to which they all point and which they are trying, however imperfectly, to embody in a way of life, is one in which there would be complete mutual congruity between the spirit of which it is the outward manifestation, the type of character which it fosters, the system of activities in which it finds expression, the rules of conduct which it implies, and the ends or states of affairs to which it gives rise. And this natural affinity applies not only to the relation between the different ends and different motives and different rules, which are found in a way of life, among themselves, but also to the interrelation between its ends, motives and rules. Certain motives and types of character more naturally find expression in complying with certain rules and in the pursuit of certain ends or the production of certain states of affairs. But rules of conduct not only express, but also tend to form, a certain sort of character, as well as to lead to certain states of affairs. And while such states of affairs may arise more or less accidentally from other motives and complying with other rules, they are more likely to result from particular kinds of motives and obeying particular sorts of rules. For this reason ends, rules and motives tend to influence one another, and when they are in harmony to support and strengthen one another. Thus what is ultimately or morally good is not just certain states of affairs or activities or experiences considered by themselves; they are also those which naturally result from certain motives according to certain rules. And the rules which are morally right are not just particular sorts of rules considered in isolation; they are also the rules which are the natural expression of certain motives and help to form and to express a certain type of character and to produce certain states of affairs. So that intelligence, strength of will and goodness of motives are all necessary not only to live the good life but also to build up the conception of the ideal to be realised in it; and stupidity, weakness of will and badness of motives mar both. And as this way of life is lived in the spirit of which its different elements in their interrelation are the expression, the motives and types of character which are manifested in it, the rules of conduct which it involves and the states of affairs or experiences to which it leads are found to be on the whole good by the people who live it.

That, then, is the kind of conception of the moral ideal, of the way in which we get knowledge of what is good, and of the degree of certainty which we can hope to get in our judgements of value, which is suggested by the analogy of natural science; and, according to the anthropological evidence, it is the kind of conception which we find among primitive peoples. It is inconsistent with the presuppositions of the method of isolation used by those who rely on the analogy of mathematics. The theories which use that method, therefore, cannot account for the moral conceptions and judgements of primitives. Accordingly, we have to consider whether the theory supported by the anthropological accounts about primitive morality is consistent with, and capable of explaining, civilised morality. As a preliminary to doing so, I want to call attention to certain respects in which the account of the nature of the moral ideal and of the way in which we get knowledge of what is good given by those who rely on the method of isolation seems to be not only unhelpful but misleading, even as an account of civilised morality. I refer especially to their analysis of the moral life in terms of the concept of means and end, their quantitative conception of the good life in terms of a scale of values arrived at by considering goods in isolation, and their comparative neglect of the importance for morality of persons and co-operation between persons. Let us look at each of these briefly.

However convenient the distinction between instrumental and intrinsic good may be for certain purposes, the value of the category of means and end as a tool of ethical analysis seems to me very limited. It is true that some of the activities in which we engage may be quite conveniently divided into parts which may be described as means and ends to one another. Thus I may go to the library for the purpose of getting a book, and I may want the book to consult a passage which a colleague tells me is relevant to a lecture which I am preparing. If somebody else brought me the book or if the colleague himself showed me the passage, it would serve my purpose equally well, and I might prefer not to have to go to the library; so that going to the library is a means to the realisation of my purpose and done only for that reason. But many other series of activities which are the realisation of purposes cannot thus be divided into means and ends. Thus the activities involved in giving the lecture or the series of lectures cannot be divided into means and end. Their purpose is realised in and through the series of activities rather than as a result of it. Some of the activities are a preparation for, and necessarily precede, others but they are not a means to the others. The purpose is not something external to the activities, but something which is realised in them as a whole. It is not realised in one activity more than in another. The series of activities is the realisation of the purpose.

Thus there are many pieces of living which we describe as the realisation of purposes to which the category of means and end does not apply. But even in cases in which the category can be appropriately applied, the theories which rely on it as their tool of ethical analysis tend to cut off means and ends far too sharply from one another. They break up the continuous process or series of activities which are life as it is actually lived into a number of detached or detachable units, some of which are relatively static states of affairs or forms of enjoyment which have value, and others of which are transitions between them and have none, and may even have positive disvalue. The former, it would seem, would be just what they are and have all the value which they have, even if the latter were to disappear altogether; indeed, life would be much better and have more value if this were to happen. But is this how we in fact think of the process, within which we distinguish means and end, when we make it the subject of a value-judgement? Do we not rather think of the piece of living, which we call carrying out a purpose or realising a value, as a whole, if not also as part of a wider whole? While it is true that what we call the means considered out of relation to the end has no value, the moral agent does not so consider it; neither does he consider the end as the subject of a considered value-judgement out of relation to the means. Is that not implied in the accepted moral maxim that the end does not justify the means? The value belongs to the piece of living, the activity or experience of producing the end by the means.

An act as something which takes place in time is forward-looking. It is the initiation or realisation of a state of affairs or an end. And the thought of the agent who is reflectively considering the desirability of bringing about the state of affairs moves backwards and forwards from end to means and from means to end; and if the end or purpose is realised, it is being realised throughout the process rather than at a given point in it. If it is being realised more at one point than at another, that point may not be last in the series of activities, still less need it be something which remains after the series is completed. The means, in the sense of the price which is paid for realising the purpose, may come after rather than before, or may come partly after and partly before, that part of the process which would be specially described as the end or the realisation of the purpose. But even if the end, in the sense of the realisation of the purpose, is the last stage of the process, nonetheless before being realised it is present in the thought and intention of the agent, directing and giving value to the process; and when it is realised, it is what it is and has the value which it has as a part of the process. When we think of triumphing over obstacles, striving for a goal, rest after toil, solving a difficult problem, would the end be what it is or have the value which it has if divorced from the process of which it forms part? Indeed the process of trying to realise it may have a value, even a high value, even if the end is not in fact realised at all. And the whole process which is thus divided into means and end is itself part of a larger process, part of the life of a person who is, and is aware of himself as being, one in relation to all of it. From this wider context it can be distinguished but it cannot be separated, if we are so to understand it as to enable us to pass a considered value-judgement on it. In other words, the good life is not good just in spots or patches. It has a certain unity because it is the expression of a certain spirit or because it is the objective embodiment of the unity of the self; and if it is good it is good as a whole.

Some of the theorists whose views I have been considering put forward a conception which seems more consistent with the view which I am advocating. I want to mention it not only because it helps to correct what seems to me the defects of an analysis of the moral life in terms of the category of means and end, but also because it provides some qualification of the quantitative conception of the moral ideal as a sum of independent goods. I am referring to Moore's doctrine of organic unities,7 that is, unities or wholes whose intrinsic value is greater than the sum of the intrinsic values of their parts. It is true that as used by Moore this conception does not take us very far in overcoming the difficulties of a quantitative conception of the good life, but it brings to light a principle which may be capable of much further extension. The significance of this conception from our point of view is that, in recognising that there are entities which when considered in isolation have little or no value but which in their interrelation constitute a whole which has a very great value, it introduces the idea of a kind of value which is neither intrinsic nor instrumental, namely, the value of an entity as a part of a particular kind of whole. This value is not intrinsic because, according to Moore's definition, intrinsic value belongs to the entity which has it out of relation to the other entities which together with it make up the whole; and it is not instrumental because the entity is a part of, and not a means to, the whole. Ross8 suggests the name contributive value to describe it because it belongs to the part in virtue of the contribution which the part makes to the whole, and therefore to its value. Moore denies any value to the part as a part. “To have value merely as a part”, he writes, “is equivalent to having no value at all, but merely being a part of that which has.”9 But this is so only if by value we mean intrinsic value. Otherwise the means would not have instrumental value: to have value merely as a means would be equivalent to having no value at all, but merely being a means to that which has. If, therefore, we admit the conception of instrumental value, there is no good reason why we should deny the conception of contributive value.

It is true, as Ross10 has pointed out, that some of the examples of organic unities given by Moore are neither happy nor convincing; and, on the basis of his analysis of these, Ross doubts whether there are any organic unities. Among his examples, however, Moore includes most if not all works of art, such as poems or pictures; and though Ross rejects these because he does not regard beauty as an intrinsic value, they are sufficient for our purposes; for we are not concerned with the conception of intrinsic value as the term is used by these writers. What concern us are rather the conception of a whole whose value, however we describe it, is different from and greater than the sum of the values of its parts in isolation and the conception of contributive value as the value of a part in virtue of its being an element in such a whole; and of these conceptions a work of art is a sufficiently good illustration. The contributive value of the part of such a whole depends on its appropriateness or fittingness or suitability as a constituent element of such a whole.

Now if we regard a piece of living, and especially a way of life or the moral ideal, as an organic unity, we get something like the view which is suggested by the anthropological evidence and which I have been trying to defend by an analysis of civilised morality. For our understanding of the moral life, this seems to me a much more fruitful conception than the category of means and end. It is true that Moore applies the concept of organic unity only to relatively simple wholes, but he points out that there is no theoretical reason why even the universe as a whole should not be such a unity. There is, therefore, no reason why the series of acts which express a purpose or the system of purposes which constitute a way of life should not be such unities. Whether they are or not is just a question of fact. If they are, and the evidence seems to me to suggest that they are, each act or state of affairs has the value or disvalue, which makes it right or good or wrong or bad, as the result of its fittingness or unfittingness, its appropriateness or inappropri-ateness, to take its place in a way of life which is as a whole good. According to this view, the moral ideal is not a sum of goods, but a system; and the rightness of acts depends not on their consequences but their context. It is true that on such a view the principle ‘maximise good’ or ‘produce as much good as possible’ can still be accepted as a general statement of the purpose of the moral agent, but it is quite unhelpful as a means of discovering what good he ought to realise at a given time, until the goods to be realised are adjusted into a system of compossible goods, and this system embodied in the conception of a detailed way of life. If the principle is interpreted as involving the consideration of separate acts as means to the production of isolated intrinsic goods, it seems to me not only unhelpful but misleading.

The view that, by considering goods in isolation from the context of any way of life, we can arrange them on a scale, and that, if one good is higher on the scale than another, it should in all circumstances be preferred to one which is lower, seems to be equally misleading. Indeed, however the scale of values is constructed, it seems to me that the principle ‘in case of a clash always choose the higher value’ cannot be accepted as an adequate expression of the principle of moral judgement. But the view that it is an adequate guide to the moral agent, in trying to discover what his duty is, is by no means confined to ethical theorists who rely on the method of isolation. We find it in the writings of some who in general support a conception of the moral ideal more akin to that which is suggested by the anthropological evidence and which I have been trying to defend.

Consider, as an example, the view of Urban,11 who adopts a self-realisation type of ethical theory. Urban does not accept a strictly quantitative conception of the moral ideal; nor does he rely on the method of isolation in drawing up his scale of values. In deciding what place different goods should have on the scale, he takes account of the respective contributions which they make to the realisation of the good of the self as a whole. But having got his scale, he lays down the principle that wherever he has to choose between two goods the moral agent should always realise the higher.

Now there seem to me to be fatal objections to this principle as a guide to the moral agent trying to discover his duty; and they seem to apply however the scale is constructed. I shall state them as they apply to Urban's formulation of the principle; but they apply with even greater force to the formulations which rely on the method of isolation. Urban arranges goods in an ascending scale as bodily, social and spiritual.12 According to his scale, therefore, the pursuit of knowledge is a higher good than the production of food, and aesthetic enjoyment has a higher value than good health. Now circumstances arise in which we may have to choose between the pursuit of knowledge and the production of food, or between the promotion of health and the production or the enjoyment of beauty. Is it feasible to suggest that in all such circumstances we ought to choose the so-called higher good? All the goods on the scale, the lower as well as the higher, are necessary to the good or complete life. No good, however high on the scale, is by itself the complete of isolation. They make abstraction from some fundamental aspects of human life; they neglect some of the conditions in which the moral life is lived and in which, therefore, the moral ideal, which is the good for man, has to be realised, if it is to be realised at all.

All theories which arrange goods on a scale, and formulate the principle of moral judgement as ‘in case of a clash always choose the higher value on the scale’, neglect the temporal aspect of human life, and therefore of the good for man. But, in fact, there are very narrow limits to the goods which an individual can realise at once; and so if the different goods which in their interrelationship constitute the good for man are to be realised at all, they must be arranged in a temporal sequence. And every duty is a particular duty, a duty to do a particular act at a given moment of time. Therefore, at any given moment a choice has to be made between different possible goods though all of them may be desirable. If a man's experience or the unity of his self were confined within the limits of the passing moment, his good or moral ideal would have only a vertical pattern, and at any moment it would be his duty to realise the highest value possible at that moment.13 But man is aware of himself not only as the unitary subject of different simultaneous desires, but also as a unity persisting from moment to moment. Therefore his good has a temporal aspect; the goods which he is to realise must be integrated into a temporal pattern; and in deciding what he ought to do now he has to take account of this pattern. There is no good which he ought to be realising all the time, except moral goodness which, as we shall see, is realised indirectly as a by-product of realising, or of attempting to realise, other goods. Owing to the time-conditioned character of human life, the condition of realising a particular good compatibly with realising the greatest good of the self as a whole may be the denial of it now, and the realising of something else instead. It is true that different goods are so inextricably intertwined that, in realising one good, we may be realising others as well. But, owing to the limitations which constitute our finitude, conflicts between the requirements of realising different goods may arise at any moment, and we may have to make a choice between, say, pursuing knowledge, enjoying beauty, promoting friendship and procuring food. And any theory which makes abstraction from the fact that our existence is time-conditioned, that all duties are duties to do particular acts at a given time, and that there are limits to the number of goods that we can realise at once, leaves out of account the conditions which alone enable us to decide what good we ought to realise now.

As a result of the characteristics of human life which I have just mentioned clashes between goods arise in two different ways, and a choice between them has to be made for two different reasons. The one kind of clash is between goods, such as self-assertion and friendly co-operation or unlimited freedom and social order, which are in principle incompatible, because they are expressions of a different spirit or character. The realisation of one of these renders impossible the realisation of the other as part of a life which is a unitary and self-consistent whole. The other and more common kind of clash is between goods, such as the enjoyment of beauty, the possession of knowledge, the promotion of health, the provision of shelter, and so on, which are not only in principle compatible and, therefore, capable of being combined in a life which is self-consistent, but which are essential elements in every full life. They are all possible and desirable, but they may not be compossible; for conflicts between their requirements are liable to arise at any moment because of our finite limitations which prevent us from realising them all at once. It is true that a clash of this kind need not involve the final abandonment, but only the postponement, of the goods not chosen. Such postponement, and the realisation of another or other goods now, may be a condition of the fuller realisation of the postponed goods later; but at times it may mean real loss. What concerns us, however, is that at a given moment a choice has to be made and that the principle, that at any given moment we should realise the highest good which is possible at that moment, will not enable us to make the right choice. The good which ought to be realised now is not the one which when considered in isolation is highest but the one which is required here and now by the pattern of the good life as a whole; and, as that pattern has a temporal as well as a vertical aspect, no theory which leaves the temporal aspect out of account can supply a principle which will not mislead us in our choice.

Such a view as is here advocated does not mean that when the moral agent passes judgement on a state of affairs or an act he need have before his mind its relation to the whole way of life of which it forms part. For he has learned by experience, his own and that of other people, that certain states of affairs or sorts of acts are normally elements in, and expressions of the spirit of, a certain way of life. And for the rough-and-ready judgements of everyday life this is usually sufficient. But such judgements are not regarded by the moral agent as infallible. When they are challenged he does not say that he is sure of their truth but rather that certain acts and states of affairs require a great deal of explaining or justifying, if the judgements which he has passed on them are not to stand. This explanation and justification are to be found, if they are to be found at all, not in the acts or states of affairs themselves, but in their relation to the context of the way of life of which they are parts. The more considered and reflective the judgements, the wider the context which they take into account, the less likely they are to need revision. But at the best none of them is infallible or incorrigible.

Now this theory may seem to make the task of the moral agent in trying to discover his duty more difficult and more hazardous than the theories which hold that we get crystal-clear intuitions of rightness or goodness. As I shall point out below, I am not at all sure that, in the end, this will be found to be so. But be that as it may, is the theory not in this respect a more faithful account of the facts of the moral life and the process of moral deliberation? Is there not in the moral life an experimental element, an element of adventure or of faith, which involves taking risks on an insight which is short of absolute certainty? Does not moral insight grow and do not moral judgements become more certain in the process of preliving in imagination and ideal experiment which we get in moral deliberation, and in the process of putting our insight to the test of actual living in practice?

It is true that both the Ideal Utilitarians and the Intuitionists admit the fallibility of the moral agent in deciding what in any given circumstances he ought to do. For their incorrigible judgements of goodness and rightness refer to abstract aspects of the moral life and not to particular states of affairs or acts. The rules of prima facie rightness have varying degrees of urgency; intrinsic goods have varying degrees of goodness; the consequences of acts can only be partially computed. Accordingly, in deciding what he ought to do in particular circumstances, the moral agent has to rely on his fallible judgement. But, as I have already pointed out, what is more important is that neither theory provides nor admits any principle on which the individual faced with this problem can base his decision. Accordingly, while at the outset they appear to give greater certainty than the view which I advocate, in the end they give less. And by leaving the moral agent without a principle on which to decide the really crucial issues of the moral life, they fail to account for the growing insight which seems to come with experience, and for the fact, for fact it seems to be, that the more we reflect and deliberate the more likely we are to arrive at a right decision as to what our duties are.

These considerations seem to be connected with the other defect which I mentioned in the theories which rely on the method of isolation. As the result of concentrating their attention on isolated aspects of the moral life, these theories tend to neglect the central place of selves or persons in morality and the implications of this for the nature of the moral ideal. It is true, and I think significant, that Ross holds,14 and that Moore is inclined to hold,15 that only experiences have intrinsic goodness. Now experiences are the experiences of persons or selves; and selves, at least moral selves, are self-conscious, which means that they are aware of their own identity amid the variety of their experiences. As a result of this unitary character of the self as self-conscious, the experiences of one self are not isolated and self-contained. They mutually interact and modify one another within the unity of the self. Accordingly, the system of activities or goods or the way of life which is the good of the self must have a corresponding unitary character. But the theories which I have been considering seem to pay insufficient attention to this unitary character of the self and its implications for the interrelation of the goods which constitute the moral ideal. Ross has himself called attention to the fact that Ideal Utilitarianism, with its summation of independent goods, does not sufficiently recognise the fundamental significance of persons in morality; and it seems to me that the same is true, though to a less marked degree, of Intuitionism. Indeed, it would appear that no theory which begins with isolated units, which are given in incorrigible judgements of goodness or rightness, and which regards the moral ideal or the good life as a combination of such units, can do justice to the unity of selves or persons, or to the unitary character of the ideal which is the objective counterpart of the self's unity. But it is with persons, and relations between persons, that we are primarily concerned in morality; and therefore theories which neglect the distinguishing characteristics of persons are unlikely to be satisfactory. And the unity of persons is their most distinctive characteristic, that without which they would not be moral selves at all; and experiences, acts, goods and states of affairs have moral significance only in relation to such unities.

I have dwelt on the shortcomings of the theories which rely on the method of isolation, partly to bring out by contrast certain features of the moral life of which, as it seems to me, any satisfactory ethical theory must take account, partly because the assumptions which underlie these theories seem to be widespread not only among recent and contemporary ethical writers but also in much of our moral thinking, and partly in the hope that a recognition of their inadequacies may weaken the resistance which is aroused in many quarters by anyone who mentions the kind of theory which I outlined in earlier lectures. That theory, which regards the procedure of the moral agent as more akin to the procedure of the natural scientist than to that of the mathematician, is a reformulation or modification of the self-realisation type of theory in the light of the anthropological analysis of primitive ways of life. In this reformulation I have tried to supplement the self-realisation theory and give it greater concreteness, partly by reference to some of the facts brought to light by the anthropological analysis, and partly by a more explicit recognition of the importance, for our understanding of morality, of the temporal aspect of human life. I have also tried so to state the theory as to remove the ambiguities which have led to its being regarded as an egoistic theory. I want now to try to show (1) how the theory, as thus reformulated, accounts for those aspects of the moral life which we have just been considering and which have been largely neglected by the theories which we have been discussing; and (2) how it connects with the anthropological evidence: how it explains that evidence and draws support from it.

The self-realisation theory gives selves or persons their central place in morality; for it derives both the content and the structure of the moral ideal from the nature of the self—the former from its needs and desires, social and non-social, the latter from its unitary character as self-conscious. It thus makes morality a peculiarly human phenomenon. Now human needs and desires are plastic, capable of finding expression and satisfaction in many different ways; the unitary nature of the self requires that they should be so integrated as to find satisfaction compatibly with one another; and such success as is achieved in bringing this about is the result of experience and experiment. Recognition of these facts enables the theory to do justice to those aspects of the moral life for which theories which rely on the method of isolation find it difficult to account, such as the element of adventure and experiment, the developing insight which comes with reflection and practice, and the fact that the moral ideal is not a sum of goods but a system with a unitary character. The experimental and tentative character of all attempts to conceive the good for man and to articulate it in a detailed way of life also explains both the similarities and the differences between the particular moral judgements of different peoples—the similarities by references to the common human nature and needs, the differences by the partial and inadequate character of all efforts to conceive in detail how that nature and those needs are to find satisfaction. Thus it is consistent with the moral judgements of all men everywhere, primitive and civilised alike.

It is true that the conception of the moral ideal as self-realisation is purely formal, and that the principle ‘realise the self’, taken abstractly, is as unhelpful as a guide to the moral agent trying to discover his duty as the principle ‘maximise good’ or ‘choose the higher value’.16 But the classical exponents of the self-realisation theory have pointed out that in the course of history men have given concreteness to this formal principle by embodying its requirements in patterns of behaviour which have both an inner or psychological and an outer or institutional side. On their outer side these patterns of behaviour find expression in systems of institutions “from the family to the nation” which constitute “the body of the moral world”.17 In this way the self-realisation theory emphasises the intimate connection between the moral and the social ideal, and between moral and social philosophy; but it does so without making all morality, or even all the values which together constitute the moral ideal, social. For it not only insists that morality has an inner or personal side, the side to which moral goodness belongs, but it also recognises that, though man has social desires and requires the co-operation of his fellows for the satisfaction of many even of his non-social needs, some of the values which he seeks to realise and which form part of the good for man, like truth and beauty and, it may be, holiness, are non-social. But though it does not regard all moral values as social, this theory emphasises the importance for our understanding of morality of the social aspect of human nature; and so it regards the moral ideal as a way of life in which different people co-operate to realise their ends, both social and non-social.

Now none of the ways of life which result from the efforts of different peoples to embody the moral ideal is entirely adequate. The different patterns of behaviour which constitute them are never entirely consistent and the provision which they make for the different needs of human nature are never entirely adequate. Therefore, the formal ideal, of which at best they are only imperfect expressions, stands over against them as the critic of their imperfections and a challenge to further progress.

It is by its account of the intermediate links between human nature and its needs, on the one hand, and the formal ideal, on the other, that the work of the social anthropologists supplements and supports the classical expression of the self-realisation theory. This it does in two main ways: by its analysis of the nature of institutions and its emphasis on their importance as determinants of right conduct; and by its account of the functional interdependence of institutions as constituting operative ideals or ways of life. By interposing institutions and operative ideals between the formal ideal and the particular needs and desires of individuals, it makes it easier for us to see how the duties to realise particular values in given situations are determined; while its account of the functional interrelation of institutions within operative ideals shows us that these ideals are not completely coherent, and yet that each of them has a certain unity of spirit, that there is a certain congruity between its institutions.

Now the self-realisation theory reveals the source of this mutual adjustment or affinity between the institutions which, in their interrelation, constitute the way of life of a people. It is to be found in the unitary character of the self. The requirements of the different institutions of a people meet and mutually modify one another in the minds of its members. The same individual takes part in the working of many institutions, and when their requirements conflict he is frustrated and unhappy. Accordingly, adjustment is continually taking place. The forms which this adjustment takes we described earlier. What concerns us at present is that its source, and the stimulus to further integration, is the unity of the self as self-conscious. In this way, then, the anthropological analysis enables us to give greater concreteness to the self-realisation theory, and the theory gains support from the anthropological evidence.

The other way in which the self-realisation theory seems to me to need to be supplemented and made more concrete is by a more explicit recognition of the implications of the temporal aspect of human life for the determination of our particular duties. It is true that some of the values which men seek to realise are non-temporal or independent of time; but our duties to realise them are not. If they are to be realised at all, they must be realised in a life in which they cannot all be realised at once. Our duties to realise them are all particular duties, duties to do particular acts at given moments of time. Therefore, the duties to realise them must be arranged in a temporal pattern, which determines which value we should realise at a given moment.

The self-realisation theory is not only consistent with and supported by the anthropological evidence about primitive ways of life; it is also capable of accounting for certain parts of that evidence which have troubled the anthropologists themselves because they find it difficult to reconcile them with each other. Before discussing this further evidence and the support which it gives to the self-realisation theory, and as an introduction to doing so, I want to consider, and, if I can, to remove the ambiguities in the self-realisation theory which have led to its being regarded as egoistic. The criticism that it is an egoistic theory—a criticism which, if substantiated, would rightly be regarded as a fatal objection to it as a moral theory—seems to me to be due to a failure on the part of some of its chief exponents to recognise, or at least to make explicit, the peculiar relation of moral goodness to the moral ideal, and to their consequent tendency to speak of moral goodness or the perfection of the self as an end, if not the only end, to be consciously aimed at by the moral agent. This seems the natural interpretation to put on the view that the moral end is self-realisation, and that the principle which should guide the moral agent in trying to discover his duty is ‘realise the self’. It is not necessary to discuss here whether or not this interpretation is the result of a misunderstanding of the theory,18 though I should admit that, so far as it is, the exponents of the theory must bear their share of the responsibility for it. What I want to do is rather to try to state what I take to be the fundamental contention of the theory in such a way as to make it proof against the charge of egoism.

The position as I see it is this. Moral goodness finds expression in doing what is believed to be right because it is believed to be right. This seems to me the only good which has intrinsic value in Moore's sense. It is good in every context and it would be good even if it existed quite alone. It is recognised as good everywhere and always, by every people whatever their stage of development. But, in fact, it could not exist alone, partly because it consists in doing what is right, and what is right is what is believed to be required in the particular situation by a way of life or an operative ideal as a whole; and partly because it is realised or comes into existence in the pursuit of other goods. It is true that moral goodness or perfection of character is usually included among the list of goods which constitute the moral ideal, and which are, therefore, to be aimed at in trying to realise the ideal. But, as I said in an earlier lecture, this seems to me to be a mistaken way of regarding it. Moral goodness seems to me not to be a constituent element in the moral ideal and not an end to be consciously aimed at. Rather it is manifested or revealed or comes into existence in the pursuit of the ends which do constitute the ideal. Instead of being an end, it is a by-product of the pursuit of other ends, when these are regarded as best and, therefore, as obligatory in the circumstances, and pursued for that reason. In other words, the way to get this, the highest of all values and, as it seems to me, the only intrinsic good, is to forget about it, and do whatever particular duties are here and now required, or try to realise whatever particular goods, the welfare of others, beauty, friendship, knowledge, health, etc., are here and now required, as part of the system of goods which is the good for man.

Self-realisation or the attainment of moral goodness or perfection seems to be the description of the moral process as it appears to one who looks at it from the outside; whereas the moral agent, who is engaged in the process and sees it from the inside, has before his mind, or consciously aims at, particular goods, not at self-realisation. The pursuit and realisation of the goods at which he aims are the conditions of self-realisation, but he does not aim at them as such. Nevertheless, self-realisation comes as the by-product of their pursuit and attainment. As the goods at which he aims are objects of interest of one self and as that self is self-conscious, they are, or become, to a greater or lesser degree, mutually adjusted and integrated into a system. Otherwise the self would not find its realisation in them. In the process of realising them, it would seem, the self is forgotten but not lost: forgotten in the sense that it is not consciously before the mind, but not lost because it is operative and being realised. It is not by anxious thought about our own goodness or perfection that we improve our character, but by doing our particular duties in pursuing the things which are good. But these goods or interests must be integrated in a certain way, if the self whose they are is to be realised; and it is the self which supplies the integrating force, the bond of interconnection between them.

Now the self-realisation theory rightly insists (1) that the moral ideal must have a unitary character, because it is the objective counterpart of the self which, as self-conscious, is a unity; and (2) that the realisation of the goods, which in their interrelation constitute the moral ideal, involves the realisation of the self. But exponents of the theory are sometimes apt to leave the mistaken impression that the realisation of the self in its unitary character is consciously before the mind and deliberately aimed at, and that other goods or ends are means to self-realisation, and pursued for that reason. Interpreted in this way, the theory becomes an egoistic one; and, however much its advocates emphasise the social and altruistic character of many of the self's interests and ends, as long as the realisation of the self is regarded as the end to be consciously pursued, it will be difficult to meet the criticism that the theory is egoistic. If, on the other hand, we recognise that the self as self-conscious is the unitary centre of many interests, that as such it introduces order and system among them, that in their being realised it finds expression and realisation, but that they are not pursued as a means to self-realisation but rather as parts of a system of ends which is as a whole good, because it is the objective counterpart of the unity of the self's interests, we can do justice to the facts of the moral life and to both aspects of the fundamental contention of the self-realisation theory without any appearance of egoism. Of course, other ends may be pursued as a means to self-realisation, and then we get selfishness and egoism; but they need not be, and, in the typical attitude of the moral agent, they are not so pursued.

Now this double character of the moral ideal as a unitary system which is centred in, and the counterpart of, the unity of the self, and yet not selfish or egoistic, because many of the self's interests are altruistic and social, seems to provide the explanation for the apparent inconsistency which I mentioned in the descriptions given by anthropologists of the ways of life and attitudes of mind of primitive peoples. When we take together the two aspects, which are alternately emphasised by the anthropologists and whose apparent inconsistency seems at times to trouble them, we shall find, I think, that they support the interpretation of the moral life which I have been advocating, and which constitutes the essential contention of the self-realisation theory, as I understand it. In describing the way of life of a primitive people, the anthropologist finds it necessary to emphasise both sides. When he gives an account of one side, he seems to feel that he must supplement it by stating the other side, in order to correct the impression which an account of the one side alone is in danger of leaving. Yet he has no theory of the way in which the two sides can be reconciled. These facts seem to me to give strong support to the theory which regards the two accounts, not as inconsistent but as referring to supplementary aspects of the moral ideal, and which tries to show how both aspects are essential to it.

I shall illustrate this point by reference to Malinowski's description of the Trobrianders, though the work of almost any other recent anthropologist, who has given a detailed account of a primitive people, would serve equally well. Malinowski, as we have seen, made a special study of the motives and incentives which primitives have for doing what they regard as right, especially when it is difficult and burdensome, and so opposed to their inclinations. The conclusion at which he arrives is that, in the main, they carry out such duties, neither from mere pressure of custom nor from fear of supernatural punishment, but because they recognise that only by so doing can their interests be realised and their deepest desires satisfied. This is specially clear in his account of the principle of reciprocity as the basis of the native's sense of obligation to behave in certain ways. Unless the native believes that the results of the working of the principle are on the whole good, in the sense that its operation gives him what he really wants, his own welfare and that of his people, he does not feel under any obligation to comply with its requirements. Such is one of the main results at which Malinowski arrives from his detailed analysis of Trobriand morality; and he illustrates the social machinery which brings this home to the native, both from the working of separate institutions and from the relations between institutions.

Now such a description is apt to leave the impression that the native never does his duty except from motives of self-interest, and that he has no sense of obligation except one based on considerations of prudence. But Malinowski reminds us again and again, even in the middle of his account of sanctions and incentives, that such an impression would be entirely mistaken. The interests of the native, for the realisation of which he will work strenuously, endure hardship and deny himself many immediate advantages, are largely altruistic and social. They include a direct interest in the welfare of other people, a desire for the friendship and approval of his fellows, and so on. Among the motives which move the native, Malinowski repeatedly insists, are loyalty to the group, respect for the rights of others, sense of duty, recognition of the value of co-operation, etc. No primitive society, he contends, could continue to exist without the operation of such motives. But he is equally emphatic that no primitive community could continue to exist without the operation of the principle of reciprocity, and the recognition by the native, through the operation of the principle, that doing his duty is in his own interest, and on the whole gives him what he wants.

Now, according to the view which I have taken of the structure of the moral life and the nature of the moral ideal, the inconsistency between these two contentions is only apparent. For, when the anthropologists emphasise the aspect which seems to make the primitive egocentric and selfish, they are just insisting that, in order that anything may arouse in him a sense of obligation or move him to difficult and unpleasant action, it must be something which arouses his interest, something which appeals to him because he believes it to be necessary if his interests are to be fulfilled. When, on the other hand, they point out that the primitive's sense of obligation is not aroused, or that he is not moved to action, merely by a desire for his own personal comfort or selfish pleasure, they are explaining the nature of the primitive man's interests, that they include an interest in the welfare of others as well as his own pleasure, in friendship as well as in food, in the esteem and approval of his fellows even more than in his own personal comfort; and that he is interested in all of these directly, and not as means to personal satisfaction. In other words, the interests of the self are not necessarily selfish interests; the desires of the self are not necessarily desires for self-satisfaction. Nevertheless, the realisation of the interests and the fulfilment of the desires is the realisation and expression of the self.

But, as we have seen, the interests of the self are not all on the same level. They are interconnected and integrated into systems in which some are subordinated to others. We have therefore to distinguish between the short-term and the long-term interests, the relatively transitory and the more permanent interests, the narrower and the more comprehensive interests, the relatively isolated and the more integral interests. The latter are those in which his self is more deeply implicated, and, therefore, their claims are accepted as obligatory as against those of the former. For this reason also their fulfilment provides the fuller realisation of the self.

According to the anthropological evidence, then, the primitive does not regard anything as obligatory which is not a part of, or a contribution to, what he believes to be good. The only self-evident intuition which he seems to recognise is that of a necessary connection between value and obligation, between what is on the whole good and what he ought to do; and the only intrinsic good which he seems to recognise is that of doing what he believes to be right or obligatory. This suggests that the main structure of the moral life is the same among all peoples, and that the moral judgements of primitives are based on the same principle as our own; and that our account of that structure and that principle are essentially sound.

It may be objected that this line of argument assumes in the primitive a degree of reflection and conscious rationality which is rare among the members of any community and which is seldom practised even by those who are capable of it. Is it seriously suggested, I may be asked, that in the ordinary business of living the average citizen of a primitive community thinks of his interests as an integrated pattern or of the way of life of his people as a whole, and deliberately decides what value he should realise or what action he ought to do here and now by reference to it? Does he not leave to social anthropologists and moral philosophers the task of discovering the intricate interconnections between the different parts of the way of life of his people, and do they not find the task difficult enough? From what has been said above, the answer to this question should be clear. Neither the facts nor the theory here advocated suggests that the individual, whether primitive or civilised, who arrives, or is trying to arrive, at a decision on a moral issue, even under the simplest conditions and in the smallest society, has consciously before his mind the whole pattern of the way of life of his people. To show that this is so, all we need do is to gather together a number of considerations to which we have already called attention.

Even an intuitionist like Ross, who believes that some moral rules are self-evident, regards many, if not most, rules—the media axiomata of morality—as “the crystallised products of the experience and reflection of many generations” who have been engaged for longer “than we can tell exploring the consequences of certain types of acts and drawing conclusions accordingly about the rightness and wrongness of types of acts”.19 According to the self-realisation theory, all moral rules are of this kind, and the crystallised products of experience are embodied not only in rules but in institutions. And the anthropological analysis further shows that these institutions are functionally interconnected to constitute ways of life. Now the main structure of the institutions and of the way of life of his people is there before the individual arrives. They are available to guide his faltering steps and his fallible judgement, and to act as constant reminders to him of his duties. It is true that the extent to which different individuals enter into the spirit of their way of life and see its pattern as a whole varies greatly. The integration of the personalities of all of them and the building up of their personal ideals takes place within the framework and under the influence of this pattern. In the case of some individuals neither their personalities nor their personal ideals have much integration beyond what the way of life of their people supply; and the integration both of them and of the way of life may be mainly at the conative-emotional level rather than at the reflective and rational level. For others the integration is more conscious, their grasp of the pattern firmer and more extensive, their moral thinking more reflective. But even if what is consciously before the mind of an individual when he makes a moral judgement or decision is only a particular situation, or the requirement of a particular institution, the institution is part of a system of interrelated institutions and the way of life forms the context of the situation. And though the pattern of the way of life may not be consciously before his mind, it is operative in it as habits of thinking and feeling and acting. For it has helped to mould the mind from which judgements and decisions emerge. Thus it exists in him as much as around him; and so it tends to influence even his more considered and reflective moral judgements. And most moral judgements are not original but imitative or repetitive. As far as they are concerned, it is easy for him to see what the rules and institutions which constitute the way of life which his people have developed, and which he has made his own, require of him. In familiar circumstances they seldom fail him, and therefore it is seldom necessary for him to consider an act or situation in the light of the pattern of his way of life as a whole. But whatever be the degree of reflection and conscious rationality which an individual brings to bear on the situation before him, and whether the way of life of his people is consciously before his mind, or operative in it, or the background against which he sees the situation, it is always there as a determining influence; and we must take account of it, if we would understand the judgements of value which he passes.

These ways of life are not static. None of them is a perfect embodiment of the ideal which they are all attempts to express. There is, therefore, a duty not only to comply with their requirements but also so to alter them as to make them approach more closely to the formal ideal. There is, however, no difference of principle between the two types of duty. The work of the average conscientious citizen merges into that of the moral and social reformer. Indeed the way of life of a people has not the definiteness which some of my statements might suggest. For it exists mainly in the minds of the individual members of the society; and different individuals enter some more and some less fully into its spirit and purpose. Accordingly, its requirements may appear different to the average man in his average moments and to the best men in their best moments. Those who enter more fully into its spirit and recognise more clearly what that spirit requires for its expression may be already on the way to modifying it. The moral and social reformer who wants to change it more or less radically is only a stage further along the same road.20 With the nature of the process of growing moral insight or enlightenment by which men have arrived at increasingly adequate embodiments of the ideal, the direction in which it points and the criterion by which it is to be tested, I shall deal in the next lecture. Meantime there are two other considerations which I want to mention briefly.

I have used the term ‘way of life’ to describe the operative moral ideal of a people, and this might leave the impression that, among primitives at least, I regard morality as the whole of life, all questions which arise in connection with a way of life as moral questions, all right rules as moral rules, every choice as a moral choice, and every good as an element in the moral ideal. This, however, is not so. Morality seems to me to be concerned with the whole of life, without being the whole of it. It is concerned with the whole of life in the sense that moral considerations may arise in any sphere of life, that in all spheres the moral judgement is the final judgement, and that we cannot understand or justify a moral judgement without taking the whole way of life into account. But in trying to understand a way of life, we have to consider many questions which are not moral questions and with which ethics is not directly concerned, though the answers to them may be relevant to moral issues; there are goods which are not moral goods and which do not form part of the moral ideal; and some of the decisions which we have to make in the course of living are not moral decisions and are not based on moral principles. I want to illustrate each of these points briefly.

(1) Clarity of thinking and effectiveness in action demand that we should distinguish certain aspects of life, consider them by themselves, and discover the consequences and collateral effects of certain actions and lines of policy. Thus we may isolate the economic aspect of life, and consider whether one system of production or distribution or one financial system is more or less efficient than another, in the sense that it contributes to the provision of a greater quantity or better quality of goods; or we may consider different systems of legal administration from the point of view of their relative efficiency in securing the impartial administration of the law; and so on, with such things as different systems of education and different forms of social organisation. But though all these questions concern persons and the relations between persons, the answers to them cannot by themselves enable us to decide what we ought to do in any set of circumstances. The conclusions at which we arrive in such enquiries have to be considered in relation to a way of life as a whole before a final judgement of value can be passed on them; and, when this is done, it may well be that what seems best in isolation, as, e.g., the economically most efficient policy, may not be socially or morally the most desirable. But though such questions are not moral, the answers to them may be relevant to our moral decisions; and, so far as this is so, it is our duty to make and keep ourselves as enlightened as we can about them. Nevertheless, we have to consider the states of affairs which these enquiries disclose in the context of a way of life before we can discover whether they are morally right.

(2) There is another sense in which morality is less than the whole of life. Morality is concerned with conduct and the goods or values which are realisable through conduct—those which can be striven for or result from striving. But there are goods, and some of them are among the most precious in life, which come unsought, and so are not the results of action or striving. They come unbidden, a sort of unearned increment, gifts of nature or of grace. Nevertheless, when they come, they are found good and gracious, like the song of birds, the beauty of the sunset, the smell of flowers, the touch of a friend's hand or the smiles of children. These are among the things that make life worth while, but they are not the results of moral effort. Their goodness is a natural goodness. No moral considerations arise in connection with them, except perhaps the way we respond to them and use them. There are other goods, such as an equable temper or a friendly disposition, which may be the results of moral effort, the fruits of the moral spirit; but they may equally well be natural goods, gifts of nature, for which their possessor can claim no moral credit. They always have a value; but in some cases it is a natural value, in others it is a moral value.

(3) Even when we are concerned with conduct and moral questions are involved, not all decisions which we are called on to take need be moral decisions. It is true that moral considerations are ultimately decisive, and that therefore it is never legitimate to take a moral holiday; but moral principles may themselves demand that within certain spheres decisions should be left to liking or convenience or aptitude and not be made a matter of moral principles. For example, it may be my moral duty to take exercise in the interests of my health but whether I take it in the form of walking or swimming or playing golf is not a moral question.

But while there are many questions about the way of life of a people which are not moral questions; while there are goods which are neither the results nor the objects of action, and therefore not moral values; and while not all decisions about what to do are moral decisions, no final judgement of rightness or goodness can be passed on an act or a rule or a state of affairs which results from action except in the context of a way of life as a whole.

The other point which I want to mention is this. I have been concerned with the work of conceiving the moral ideal and of embodying it in a way of life as this would take place, if all the individuals in a society had both the imagination and intelligence to grasp what the way of life of their people requires of them, and the goodwill to carry it out. But the most difficult and perplexing moral problems arise when some of those who co-operate in a way of life fail to carry out its requirements, or to pay regard to the feelings or the interests of their fellows. But though there are elements in human nature which militate against the recognition or the realisation of operative moral ideals and though the practical moral problems to which they give rise are very important, it is not necessary to discuss them here. For they do not seem to raise any questions of principle which we have not already considered.