The Foundations of Morality

1. The Dilemma of Hume and Spencer

One of the central problems of ethics is the extent to which its rules and imperatives are absolute or merely relative. The chief reason why this problem still lacks a satisfactory solution is that its very existence is so seldom explicitly recognized. On the one hand are absolutists like Kant, with his Categorical Imperative, and his tacit assumption that our duties are always simple, clear, and never in conflict. On the other hand are the ethical anarchists or ad hoc utilitarians who contend that general rules are unnecessary, impracticable, or absurd, and that every ethical decision must be based entirely on the particular circumstances of the moment and the specific “merits of the case.” That our duties may be absolute in some respects, and relative in others, is a possibility that is too seldom considered—still less the problem of the precise limits of absolutism and relativism respectively.

One of the few moral philosophers who gave specific and extensive consideration to the problem is Herbert Spencer; and though his discussion is unsatisfactory in many respects, it states some important truths, and can still serve as a profitable starting point for consideration.

He proceeds to give a number of illustrations. For example: “The transgressions or shortcomings of a servant vary from the trivial to the grave, and the evils which discharge may bring range through countless degrees from slight to serious. The penalty may be inflicted for a very small offense, and then there is wrong done, or, after numerous grave offenses, it may not be inflicted, and again there is wrong done. How shall be determined the degree of transgression beyond which to discharge is less wrong than not to discharge?”

He proceeds to other illustrations: Under what conditions is a merchant justified in borrowing to save himself from bankruptcy, when he is also risking the funds of the friend from whom he borrows? To what extent can a man neglect his duty to his family in fulfilling what appears to be a peremptory public duty?

The illustrations that Spencer gives of conflicting considerations and conflicting duties are all real and all valid, though perhaps comparatively trivial. This conflict may exist in the most crucial human decisions. War is a dreadful recourse. It has usually brought far greater evils in its train than those that provoked the resort to war even by those originally on the “defensive.” Does this mean that no nation should ever resort to war under any provocation whatever—that it should submit to dishonor, humiliation, tribute, subservience, invasion, servility, enslavement, even annihilation? Is there any wisdom in propitiation, non-resistance, appeasement? Or does this only encourage the aggressor? At just what point is resort to war justifiable? The same questions may be asked in regard to submitting to despotism and deprivation of property or liberty, or starting a revolt or revolution of uncertain outcome or consequence. Here indeed we are confronted by choices in which there is no absolutely right but only a relatively right decision—in which, in fact, there may seem to be no solution at all that is “right” but only one that is least wrong.

Then Spencer turns to another but similar problem. He argues that the coexistence of a perfect man and an imperfect society is impossible:

Ideal conduct, such as ethical theory is concerned with, is not possible for the ideal man in the midst of men otherwise constituted. An absolutely just or perfectly sympathetic person could not live and act according to his nature in a tribe of cannibals. Among people who are treacherous and utterly without scruple, entire truthfulness and openness must bring ruin. If all around recognize only the law of the strongest; one whose nature will not allow him to inflict pain on others must go to the wall. There requires a certain congruity between the conduct of each member of a society and others’ conduct. A mode of action entirely alien to the prevailing modes of action cannot be successfully persisted in—must eventuate in death of self, or posterity, or both.

Spencer, of course, was not the first to pose this problem. It had been raised more than a century before, with even greater force, by David Hume:

2. The Mirage of Perfection

Before examining some of the conclusions that Hume and Spencer respectively draw from this hypothetical situation, I should like to go on to examine some of the further and possibly even more basic difficulties in the conception of Absolute Ethics.

Spencer, as we have seen, concludes that the “perfect man” can exist only in the “perfect society.” If we carry his logic a step further, the perfect society can be conceived to exist only in a perfect world.

Now to attempt to frame a conception of perfection seems to me to involve us in insoluble problems and contradictions. Let us begin with the concept of a perfect world.

Our difficulties do not appreciably decrease when we try to imagine a perfect society or a perfect man in this perfect world. There would be no place for many of the ethical qualities that most moralists admire—effort, striving, persistence, self-denial, courage, and compassion. Those who believe that the great ethical goal of each of us should be to improve others, to incite them to more virtue, would find nothing to do. He who was already perfect would not have to struggle to improve or perfect himself.

“Self-perfection” is frequently laid down as a man’s only true moral goal. But those who make it the goal dodge the difficulties by tacitly assuming that it is unattainable. They suggest that a man should strive to cultivate all his faculties, ignoring the fact that he can cultivate some only by relative neglect of others. By treating “self-perfection” as an end in itself, they avoid asking themselves what a man is going to do with his perfect character after he has achieved it. For the perfectly moral man not only must never do the slightest amount of harm but must always be doing positive good—otherwise he is less than perfect. He cannot make perfectly wise decisions unless he has infinite knowledge and clairvoyance, and can forsee all the consequences of his acts. The perfect man must exercise unceasing benevolence; but in a society of perfect men no one would have any opportunity or need to exercise benevolence.

In brief, it is the effort to conceive of an absolute ethics or a perfect world and society that has landed ethics, historically, into so much rhetoric and sterility. We are more likely to make sense by talking in the relative terms of better and worse. It is when we try to say what would be worst and what would be best that our difficulties mount. For to determine what is best is often to make a choice among an infinite number of possibilities. But if we ask, more modestly—What actions or rules of action would make things worse? What actions or rules of action would make things better?—we are often more likely to make progress. We would do well to dwell on the meaning and the important element of truth in Voltaire’s aphorism: “The best is the enemy of the good.”

But when we state the case against absolutism in ethics, we must be extremely careful not to overstate it, and so land in the bottomless swamp of relativism or moral anarchy. We must avoid, I think, some of the sweeping conclusions of Spencer, who decided that all present-day ethics must be Relative Ethics, and that the rules of Absolute Ethics, which contemplate only “the ideal man . . . in the ideal social state” would be framable or applicable only in some indefinite future when pain had ceased to exist and everybody was perfectly adjusted to a perfect environment. For in Spencer’s “ideal” society populated only by “ideal” men there is, ex hypothesi, no ethical problem at all.

I have said that the instances Spencer cited of conflicting ethical duties or decisions posed real and valid problems; but I do not think they justify his conclusion that “throughout a considerable part of conduct, no guiding principle, no method of estimation, enables us to say whether a proposed course is even relatively right; as causing, proximately and remotely, specially and generally, the greatest surplus of good over evil.”

Real ethical problems arise; real conflicts arise; but they are comparatively rare, and they are not insoluble. It is often difficult to say with confidence what is the best solution, but it is seldom difficult to say what is the worse and what is the better solution. Humanity has, over the generations, worked out moral traditions, rules, principles, which have survived, and are daily reinforced anew, precisely because they do solve the great majority of our moral problems, precisely because it has been found that, by adhering to them, we best achieve justice, social cooperation, and the long-run maximization of happiness or minimization of misery. We do not have to solve our daily moral problems, or make our daily moral decisions, by a fresh and special calculus of the probable total consequences of each act or decision over an infinity of time. The traditional moral rules save us from this. Only where they conflict, or are patently inadequate or inapplicable, are we thrown back on the necessity of thinking out our problem afresh, without any “guiding principle” or “method of estimation.”

And even when we are thrown into the situation envisioned by Hume and Spencer we are not entirely without guiding principles. A completely moral man is not forced to be as savage and ruthless as the most savage and ruthless ruffian or scoundrel in the society, or even as savage and ruthless as the average. He is forced to defend himself and his family and his property; he must be constantly on guard against being robbed or swindled or betrayed; but he does not need himself to slaughter (except in self-defense) or rob or swindle or betray. His duty and salvation is to try to raise the average level of behavior both by setting an example and by letting others see that they do not need to fear him if they act decently.

The Hume-Spencer dilemma does show how tremendously threatening it is to individual ethics when the general level of ethics in a community deteriorates. The ethical standards and practices of the individual and the prevailing ethical standards and practices of the whole community are clearly interdependent. But if the ethical standards of the community help to determine the ethical standard of the individual, so do those of the individual help to determine those of the community. Criminals and scoundrels everywhere, invariably use as an excuse to themselves and others, that “everybody” does the crimes that they do, or “would if they had the nerve.” In order to assure themselves that they are no worse than anybody else, they contend that nobody else is any better than they are. But the moral man, the man of honor, will never be satisfied to tell himself that he is as good as the average. He will recognize that his own long-run happiness, and the long-run happiness of the community, can only be furthered by raising the average. And this he will tend to do by his own example.

In fact, even in a “completely” demoralized community, the fear by each individual of assaults, depredations, and betrayals by others will incite individual and, finally, general efforts to restore peace and order and morality and mutual trust. Hence, when the moral “equilibrium” has been violently upset, the general unacceptability or intolerableness of the resulting situation may itself finally set in motion forces tending to restore the equilibrium. Yet irreparable harm may be done before this restoration can be brought about.

The morality of each is enormously influenced by the morality of all, and the morality of all by the morality of each. When everyone is moral, it is much easier for me to be so, and the pressure on me to be so (through the approval and disapproval of others) is also greater. But where everyone else is immoral I must fight, cheat, lie, betray, to survive—or at least I may tell myself that I must. And though self-corrective forces will doubtless finally set in, the misfortune is that an immoral social environment will probably incite immorality in the individual quicker than a moral social environment will encourage morality in him. That is why the general level of morality is never completely secure, and can be raised or even maintained only by the constant vigilance and effort of each of us.

3. Obligatory and Optional Ethics

So far in our discussion of absolute and relative ethics I have been using these terms in a different sense than that found in most contemporary discussion. Ethical “relativism” is frequently defined as meaning that morality is wholly relative to a particular place, time, or person. Sometimes it is used as a name for the doctrine that conflicting ethical opinions can be equally valid. We must reject relativism in either of these senses. There are basic moral principles that are valid for all ages and all peoples, for the simple reason that without them social life would be impossible.

This need not mean, however, that we must all be ethical absolutists in the rigid sense, say, that Kant was. Morality is primarily a means rather than an end in itself. It exists to serve human needs—which means the needs of man as he is or can become. A society of angels would not need a moral code. We should distinguish, therefore, between a minimum acceptable ethics, to which we can insist that everybody conform, and an ethics of supererogation—conduct which we do not expect of each other, but which we applaud and marvel at when it occurs.

And do we not find, in fact, such a distinction between a minimum and a supererogatory standard implicit in our traditional commonsense ethics? For whereas that ethics insists on a set of duties, it praises a morality that goes beyond duty. As Mill points out in his Utilitarianism:

It is a part of the notion of Duty in every one of its forms, that a person may rightfully be compelled to fulfill it. Duty is a thing which may be exacted from a person, as one exacts a debt. Unless we think that it may be exacted from him, we do not call it a duty. . . . There are other things, on the contrary, which we wish that people should do, which we like or admire them for doing, . . . but yet admit they are not bound to do.

And as J. O. Urmson writes in supplementing this:

The general moral code, in brief, should not impose excessive positive duties on us, so that we cannot even play, enjoy ourselves, or relax without a guilty conscience. Unless the code prescribes a level of conduct that most of us can reasonably hope to achieve, it will simply be disregarded. There must be definite limits to our duties. People must be allowed a moral breathing spell once in a while. The greatest happiness is promoted by rules that do not make the requirements of morality ubiquitous and oppressive. That is one reason why the negative Golden Rule: “Do not do unto others as you would not want others to do unto you” is a better rule of thumb, in most circumstances, than the positive Golden Rule.