Part 4

In its own "proper region" no body is heavy or light; as we should say any fluid loses its weight when immersed in itself. When a portion of an element is out of its own region and surrounded by the great cosmic aggregate of another element, either of two cases may occur. The body which is "out of its element" may be below its proper place, in which case it is "light" and tends to move perpendicularly upwards to its place, or it may be above its proper place, and then it is "heavy" and tends to move perpendicularly "down" until it reaches its place. It was this supposed real distinction between motion "up" and motion "down" which made it so hard for the contemporaries of Galileo to understand that an inflated bladder rises for the same reason that a stone sinks.

*Biology*.--Of Aristotle's biology reasons of space forbid us to say much here. But a remark or two may be made about his theory of reproduction, since it is constantly referred to in much modern literature and has also played its part in theology. An interesting point is the distinction between "perfect" and "imperfect" animals. "Perfect" animals are those which can only be reproduced sexually. Aristotle held, however, that there are some creatures, even among vertebrates, which may be produced by the vivifying effect of solar heat on decomposing matter, without any parents at all. Thus malobservation of the facts of putrefaction led to the belief that flies and worms are engendered by heat from decaying bodies, and it was even thought that frogs and mice are produced in the same way from river-slime. In this process, the so-called "aequivocal generation," solar heat was conceived as the operative efficient cause which leads to the realisation of an organic "form" in the decaying matter.

In sexual reproduction Aristotle regards the male parent as the agent or efficient cause which contributes the element of form and organisation to the offspring. The female parent supplies only the raw material of the new creature, but she supplies the whole of this. No material is supplied by the male parent to the body of the offspring, a theory which St. Thomas found useful in defending the dogma of the Virgin Birth.

*Psychology*.--Since the mind grows and develops, it comes under the class of things which have a "source of motion internal to themselves," and psychology is therefore, for Aristotle, a branch of Physics. To understand his treatment of psychological questions we need bear two things in mind. (1) Psyche or "soul" means in Greek more than "consciousness" does to us. Consciousness is a relatively late and highly developed manifestation of the principle which the Greeks call "soul." That principle shows itself not merely in consciousness but in the whole process of nutrition and growth and the adaptation of motor response to an external situation. Thus consciousness is a more secondary feature of the "soul" in Greek philosophy than in most modern thought, which has never ceased to be affected by Descartes' selection of "thought" as the special characteristic of psychical life. In common language the word psyche is constantly used where we should say "life" rather than "soul," and in Greek philosophy a work "on the Psyche" means what we should call one on "the principle of life."

(2) It is a consequence of this way of thinking of the "soul" that the process of bodily and mental development is regarded by Aristotle as one single continuous process. The growth of a man's intellect and character by which he becomes a thinker and a citizen is a continuation of the process by which his body is conceived and born and passes into physical manhood. This comes out in the words of the definition of the soul. "The soul is the first entelechy (or actual realisation) of a natural organic body." What this means is that the soul stands to the living body as all form realised in matter does to the matter of which it is the form, or that the soul is the "form" of the body. What the "organic body" is to the embryo out of which it has grown, that soul is to the body itself. As the embryo grows into the actual living body, so the living body grows into a body exhibiting the actual directing presence of mind. Aristotle illustrates the relation by the remark that if the whole body was one vast eye, seeing would be its soul. As the eye is a tool for seeing with, but a living tool which is part of ourselves, so the body is a like tool or instrument for living with. Hence we may say of the soul that it is the "end" of the body, the activity to which the body is instrumental, as seeing is the "end" to which the eye is instrumental. But we must note that the soul is called only the "first" or initial "entelechy" of the body. The reason is that the mere presence of the soul does not guarantee the full living of the life to which our body is but the instrument. If we are to live in the fullest sense of the word, we must not merely "have" a soul; we "have" it even in sleep, in ignorance, in folly. The soul itself needs further to be educated and trained in intelligence and character, and to exercise its intelligence and character efficiently on the problems of thought and life. The mere "presence" of soul is only a first step in the progress towards fullness of life. This is why Aristotle calls the soul the first entelechy of the living body. The full and final entelechy is the life of intelligence and character actively functioning.

From this conception of the soul's relation to the body we see that Aristotle's "doctrine of body and mind" does not readily fall into line with any of the typical theories of our time. He neither thinks of the soul as a thing acting on the body and acted on by it, nor yet as a series of "states of mind" concomitant with certain "states of body." From his point of view to ask whether soul and body interact, or whether they exhibit "parallelism," would be much the same thing as to ask whether life interacts with the body, or whether there is a "parallelism" between vital processes and bodily processes. We must not ask at all how the body and soul are united. They are one thing, as the matter and the form of a copper globe are one. Thus they are in actual fact inseparable. The soul is the soul of its body and the body the body of its soul. We can only distinguish them by logical analysis, as we can distinguish the copper from the sphericity in the copper globe.

*Grades of Psychical Life*.--If we consider the order of development, we find that some vital activities make their appearance earlier than others, and that it is a universal law that the more highly developed activities always have the less highly developed as their basis and precondition, though the less highly developed may exist apart from the more highly developed. So we may arrange vital activities in general in an ontogenetic order, the order in which they make their appearance in the individual's development. Aristotle reckons three such stages, the "nutritive," the "sensitive," and the "intelligent." The lowest form in which life shows itself at all, the level of minimum distinction between the living and the lifeless, is the power to take in nutriment, assimilate it, and grow. In vegetables the development is arrested at this point. With the animals we reach the next highest level, that of "sensitive" life. For all animals have at least the sense of touch. Thus they all show sense-perception, and it is a consequence of this that they exhibit "appetition," the simplest form of conation, and the rudiments of feeling and "temper." For what has sensations can also feel pleasure and pain, and what can feel pleasure and pain can desire, since desire is only appetition of what is pleasant. Thus in the animals we have the beginnings of cognition, conation, and affective and emotional life in general. And Aristotle adds that locomotion makes its appearance at this level; animals do not, like plants, have to trust to their supply of nutriment coming to them; they can go to it.

The third level, that of "intelligence," i.e. the power to compare, calculate, and reflect, and to order one's life by conscious rule, is exhibited by man. What distinguishes life at this level from mere "sensitive" life is, on the intellectual side, the ability to cognise universal truths, on the conative, the power to live by rule instead of being swayed by momentary "appetition." The former gives us the possibility of science, the latter of moral excellence.[#]

*Sensation*.--Life manifests itself at the animal level on the cognitive side as sense-perception, on the conative as appetition or desire, on the affective as feeling of pleasure or pain, and in such simple emotional moods as "temper," resentment, longing. Aristotle gives sensation a logical priority over the conative and emotional expression of "animal" life. To experience appetition or anger or desire you must have an object which you crave for or desire or are angry with, and it is only when you have reached the level of presentations through the senses that you can be said to have an object. Appetition or "temper" is as real a fact as perception, but you cannot crave for or feel angry with a thing you do not apprehend.

Aristotle's definition of sense perception is that it is a "capacity for discerning" or distinguishing between "the sensible qualities of things." His conception of the process by which the discernment or distinguishing is effected is not altogether happy. In sense-perception the soul "takes into itself the form of the thing perceived without its matter, as sealing-wax receives the shape of an iron seal-ring without the iron." To understand this, we have to remember that for Aristotle the sensible qualities of the external world, colour, tones, tastes, and the rest, are not effects of mechanical stimulation of our sense-organs, but real qualities of bodies. The hardness of iron, the redness of a piece of red wax are all primarily "in" the iron or the wax. They are "forms," or determinations by definite law, of the "matter" of the iron or the wax. This will become clearer if we consider a definite example, the red colour of the wax. In the wax the red colour is a definite combination of the colour-opposites white and black according to a fixed ratio. Now Aristotle's view of the process of sense-perception is that when I become aware of the red colour the same proportion of white to black which makes the wax red is reproduced in my organ of vision; my eye, while I am seeing the red, "assimilated" to the wax, is itself for the time actually "reddened." But it does not become wax because the red thing I am looking at is a piece of red wax. The eye remains a thing composed of living tissues. This is what is meant by saying that in seeing the colours of things the eye receives "forms" without the "matter" of the things in which those forms are exhibited. Thus the process of sense-perception is one in which the organ of sense is temporarily assimilated to the thing apprehended in respect of the particular quality cognised by that organ, but in respect of no other. According to Aristotle this process of "assimilation" always requires the presence of a "medium." If an object is in immediate contact with the eye we cannot see its colour; if it is too near the ear, we do not discern the note it gives out. Even in the case of touch and taste there is no immediate contact between the object perceived and the true organ of perception. For in touch the "flesh" is not the organ of apprehension but an integument surrounding it and capable of acting as an intermediary between it and things. Thus perception is always accomplished by a "motion" set up in the "medium" by the external object, and by the medium in our sense-organs. Aristotle thus contrives to bring correct apprehension by sense of the qualities of things under the formula of the "right mean" or "right proportion," which is better known from the use made of it in the philosopher's theory of conduct. The colour of a surface, the pitch of the note given out by a vibrating string, &c., depend on, and vary with, certain forms or ratios "in" the surface or the vibrating string; our correct apprehension of the qualities depends on the reproduction of the same ratios in our sense-organs, the establishment of the "right proportion" in us. That this "right proportion" may be reproduced in our own sense-organs it is necessary (1) that the medium should have none of the sensible qualities for the apprehension whereof it serves as medium, e.g. the medium in colour-perception must be colourless. If it had a colour of its own, the "motion" set up by the coloured bodies we apprehend would not be transmitted undistorted to our organs; we should see everything through a coloured haze. It is necessary for the same reason (2) that the percipient organ itself, when in a state of quiescence, should possess none of the qualities which can be induced in it by stimulation. The upshot of the whole theory is that the sense-organ is "potentially" what the sense-quality it apprehends is actually. Actual perceiving is just that special transition from the potential to the actual which results in making the organ for the time being actually of the same quality as the object.

*The Common Sensibles and the Common Sense-organ*.--Every sense has a range of qualities connected with it as its special objects. Colours can only be perceived by the eye, sounds by the ear, and so forth. But there are certain characters of perceived things which we appear to apprehend by more than one sense. Thus we seem to perceive size and shape either by touch or by sight, and number by hearing as well, since we can count e.g. the strokes of an unseen bell. Hence Aristotle distinguishes between the "special sensible qualities" such as colour and pitch, and what he calls the "common sensibles," the character of things which can be perceived by more than one organ. These are enumerated as size, form or shape, number, motion (and its opposite rest), being. (The addition of this last is, of course, meant to account for our conviction that any perceived colour, taste, or other quality is a reality and not a delusion.) The list corresponds very closely with one given by Plato of the "things which the mind perceives by herself without the help of any organ," i.e. of the leading determinations of sensible things which are due not to sense but to understanding. It was an unfortunate innovation to regard the discernment of number or movement, which obviously demand intellectual processes such as counting and comparison, as performed immediately by "sense," and to assign the apprehension of number, movement, figure to a central "organ." This organ he finds in the heart. The theory is that when the "special organs" of the senses are stimulated, they in turn communicate movements to the blood and "animal spirits" (i.e. the vapours supposed to be produced from the blood by animal heat). These movements are propagated inwards to the heart, where they all meet. This is supposed to account for the important fact that, though our sensations are so many and diverse, we are conscious of our own unity as the subjects apprehending all this variety. The unity of the perceiving subject is thus made to depend on the unity of the ultimate "organ of sensation," the heart. Further, when once a type of motion has been set up in any sense-organ at the periphery of the body it will be propagated inward to the "common sensorium" in the heart. The motions set up by stimulation, e.g. of the eye and of the skin, are partly different, partly the same (viz. in so far as they are determined by the number, shape, size, movement of the external stimuli). Hence in the heart itself the stimulation on which perception of number or size depends is one and the same whether it has been transmitted from the eye or from the skin! Awareness of lapse of time is also regarded as a function of the "common sense-organ," since it is the "common sensory" which perceives motion, and lapse of time is apprehended only in the apprehension of motion. Thus, in respect of the inclusion of geometrical form and lapse of time among the "common sensibles," there is a certain resemblance between Aristotle's doctrine and Kant's theory that recognition of spatial and temporal order is a function not of understanding but of "pure" sense. It is further held that to be aware that one is perceiving (self-consciousness) and to discriminate between the different classes of "special" sense-perception must also be functions of the "common sense-organ." Thus Aristotle makes the mistake of treating the most fundamental acts of intelligent reflection as precisely on a par, from the point of view of the theory of knowledge, with awareness of colour or sound.

A more legitimate function assigned to the "common sensorium" in the heart is that "fantasy," the formation of mental imagery, depends on its activity. The simplest kind of "image," the pure memory-image left behind after the object directly arousing perception has ceased to stimulate, is due to the persistence of the movements set up in the heart after the sensory process in the peripheral organ is over. Since Aristotle denies the possibility of thinking without the aid of memory-images, this function of the "common sensorium" is the indispensable basis of mental recall, anticipation, and thought. Neither "experience," i.e. a general conviction which results from the frequent repetition of similar perceptions, nor thought can arise in any animal in which sense-stimulation does not leave such "traces" behind it. Similarly "free imagery," the existence of trains of imagination not tied down to the reproduction of an actual order of sensations, is accounted for by the consideration that "chance coincidence" may lead to the stimulation of the heart in the same way in which it might have been stimulated by actual sensation-processes. Sleeping and waking and the experiences of dream-life are likewise due to changes in the functioning of the "common sense-organ," brought about partly by fatigue in the superficial sense-organs, partly by qualitative changes in the blood and "animal spirits" caused by the processes of nutrition and digestion. Probably Aristotle's best scientific work in psychology is contained in the series of small essays in which this theory of memory and its imagery is worked out. (Aristotle's language about the "common sensibles" is, of course, the source of our expression "common sense," which, however, has an entirely different meaning. The shifting of sense has apparently been effected through Cicero's employment of the phrase sensus communis to mean tactful sympathy, the feeling of fellowship with our kind on which the Stoic philosophers laid so much stress.)

*Thought*.--Though thinking is impossible except by the use of imagery, to think is not merely to possess trains of imagery, or even to be aware of possessing them. Thinking means understanding the meaning of such mental imagery and arriving through the understanding at knowledge of the structure of the real world. How this process of interpreting mental imagery and reaching valid truth is achieved with greater and greater success until it culminates in the apprehension of the supreme principles of philosophy we have seen in dealing with the Aristotelian theory of knowledge. From the point of view of the "physicist" who is concerned with thinking simply as a type of natural process, the relation of "understanding" to the mental imagery just described is analogous to that of sensation to sensible qualities. The objects which thinking apprehends are the universal types of relation by which the world of things is pervaded. The process of thinking is one in which this system of universal relations is reproduced "by way of idea" in the mind of the thinker. The "understanding" thus stands to its objects as matter to form. The process of getting actually to understand the world is one in which our "thought" or "understanding" steadily receives completer determination and "form" from its contemplation of reality. In this sense, the process is one in which the understanding may be said to be passive in knowledge. It is passive because it is the subject which, at every fresh stage in the progress to knowledge, is being quite literally "informed" by the action of the real world through the sensation and imagery. Hence Aristotle says that, in order that the understanding may be correctly "informed" by its contact with its objects, it must, before the process begins, have no determinate character of its own. It must be simply a capacity for apprehending the types of interconnection. "What is called the intelligence--I mean that with which the soul thinks and understands--is not an actual thing until it thinks." (This is meant to exclude any doctrine which credits the "understanding" with either furniture of its own such as "innate ideas," or a specific structure of its own. If the results of our thinking arose partly from the structure of the world of objects and partly from inherent laws of the "structure of mind," our thought at its best would not reproduce the universal "forms" or "types" of interconnection as they really are, but would distort them, as the shapes of things are distorted when we see them through a lens of high refractive index.) Thus, though Aristotle differs from the modern empiricists in holding that "universals" realty exist "in" things, and are the links of connection between them, he agrees with the empiricist that knowledge is not the resultant of a combination of "facts" on the one side and "fundamental laws of the mind's working" on the other. At the outset the "understanding" has no structure; it develops a structure for itself in the same process, and to the same degree, in which it apprehends the "facts." Hence the "understanding" only is real in the actual process of understanding its objects, and again in a sense the understanding and the things it understands are one. Only we must qualify this last statement by saying that it is only "potentially" that the understanding is the forms which it apprehends. Aristotle does not mean by this that such things as horses and oxen are thoughts or "ideas." By the things with which "understanding" is said to be one he means the "forms" which we apprehend when we actually understand the world or any part of it, the truths of science. His point then is that the actual thinking of these truths and the truths themselves do not exist apart from one another. "Science" does not mean certain things written down in a book; it means a mind engaged in thinking and knowing things, and of the mind itself, considered out of its relation to the actual life of thinking the truths of science, we can say no more than that it is a name for the fact that we are capable of achieving such thought.

*The Active Intelligence*.--So far Aristotle's account of thought has been plain sailing. Thought has been considered as the final and highest development of the vital functions of the organism, and hence as something inseparable from the lower functions of nutrition and sensitive life. The existence of a thought which is not a function of a living body, and which is not "passive," has been absolutely excluded. But at this point we are suddenly met by the most startling of all the inconsistencies between the naturalistic and the "spiritualist" strains in Aristotle's philosophy. In a few broken lines he tells us that there is another sense of the word "thought" in which "thought" actually creates the truths it understands, just as light may be said to make the colours which we see by its aid. "And this intelligence," he adds, "is separable from matter, and impassive and unmixed, being in its essential nature an activity.... It has no intermission in its thinking. It is only in separation from matter that it is fully itself, and it alone is immortal and everlasting ... while the passive intelligence is perishable and does not think at all, apart from this." The meaning of this is not made clear by Aristotle himself, and the interpretation was disputed even among the philosopher's personal disciples.

One important attempt to clear up the difficulty is that made by Alexander of Aphrodisias, the greatest of the commentators on Aristotle, in the second century A.D. Alexander said, as Aristotle has not done, that the "active intelligence" is numerically the same in all men, and is identical with God. Thus, all that is specifically human in each of us is the "passive intelligence" or capacity for being enlightened by God's activity upon us. The advantage of the view is, that it removes the "active intelligence" altogether from the purview of psychology, which then becomes a purely naturalistic science. The great Arabian Aristotelian, Averroes (Ibn Roschd) of Cordova, in the twelfth century, went still further in the direction of naturalism. Since the "active" and "passive" intelligence can only be separated by a logical abstraction, he inferred that men, speaking strictly, do not think at all; there is only one and the same individual intelligence in the universe, and all that we call our thinking is really not ours but God's. The great Christian scholastics of the following century in general read Aristotle through the eyes of Averroes, "the Commentator," as St. Thomas calls him, "Averrois che il gran commento feo," as Dante says. But their theology compelled them to disavow his doctrine of the "active intelligence," against which they could also bring, as St. Thomas does, the telling argument that Aristotle could never have meant to say that there really is no such thing as human intelligence. Hence arose a third interpretation, the Thomist, according to which the "active intelligence" is neither God nor the same for all men, but is the highest and most rational "part" of the individual human soul, which has no bodily "organ."

*CHAPTER V*

*PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY*

Hitherto we have been concerned with the speculative branches of knowledge, we have now to turn to practice. Practice, too, is an activity of thought, but an activity which is never satisfied by the process of thinking itself. In practice our thinking is always directed towards the production of some result other than true thought itself. As in engineering it is not enough to find a solution of the problem how to build a bridge over a given river capable of sustaining a given strain, so in directing our thought on the problems of human conduct and the organisation of society we aim at something more than the understanding of human life. In the one case what we aim at is the construction of the bridge; in the other it is the production of goodness in ourselves and our fellow-men, and the establishment of right social relations in the state. Aristotle is careful to insist on this point throughout his whole treatment of moral and social problems. The principal object of his lectures on conduct is not to tell his hearers what goodness is, but to make them good, and similarly it is quite plain that Politics was intended as a text-book for legislators. In close connection with this practical object stands his theory of the kind of truth which must be looked for in ethics and politics. He warns us against expecting precepts which have the exact and universal rigidity of the truths of speculative science. Practical science has to do with the affairs of men's lives, matters which are highly complex and variable, in a word, with "what may be otherwise." Hence we must be content if we can lay down precepts which hold good in the main, just as in medicine we do not expect to find directions which will effect a cure in all cases, but are content with general directions which require to be adapted to special cases by the experience and judgment of the practitioner. The object of practical science then is to formulate rules which will guide us in obtaining our various ends. Now when we consider these ends we see at once that some are subordinate to others. The manufacture of small-arms may be the end at which their maker aims, but it is to the military man a mere means to his end, which is the effective use of them. Successful use of arms is again the end of the professional soldier, but it is a mere means among others to the statesman. Further, it is the military men who use the arms from whom the manufacturer has to take his directions as to the kind of arms that are wanted, and again it is the statesman to whom the professional soldiers have to look for directions as to when and with what general objects in view they shall fight. So the art which uses the things produced by another art is the superior and directing art; the art which makes the things, the inferior and subordinate art. Hence the supreme practical art is politics, since it is the art which uses the products turned out by all other arts as means to its ends. It is the business of politics, the art of the statesman, to prescribe to the practitioners of all other arts and professions the lines on which and the conditions under which they shall exercise their vocation with a view to securing the supreme practical end, the well-being of the community. Among the other professions and arts which make the materials the statesman employs, the profession of the educator stands foremost. The statesman is bound to demand certain qualities of mind and character in the individual citizens. The production of these mental and moral qualities must therefore be the work of the educator. It thus becomes an important branch of politics to specify the kind of mental and moral qualities which a statesman should require the educator to produce in his pupils.

It is this branch of politics which Aristotle discusses in his Ethics. He never contemplates a study of the individual's good apart from politics, the study of the good of the society. What then is the good or the best kind of life for an individual member of society? Aristotle answers that as far as the mere name is concerned, there is a general agreement to call the best life, Eudaimonia, Happiness. But the real problem is one of fact. What kind of life deserves to be called happiness? Plato had laid it down that the happy life must satisfy three conditions. It must be desirable for its own sake, it must be sufficient of itself to satisfy us, and it must be the life a wise man would prefer to any other. The question is, What general formula can we find which will define the life which satisfies these conditions? To find the answer we have to consider what Plato and Aristotle call the work or function of man. By the work of anything we mean what can only be done by it, or by it better than by anything else. Thus the work of the eye is to see. You cannot see with any other organ, and when the eye does this work of seeing well you say it is a good eye. So we may say of any living being that its work is to live, and that it is a good being when it does this work of living efficiently. To do its own work efficiently is the excellence or virtue of the thing. The excellence or virtue of a man will thus be to live efficiently, but since life can be manifested at different levels, if we would know what man's work is we must ask whether there is not some form of life which can only be lived by man. Now the life which consists in merely feeding and growing belongs to all organisms and can be lived with equal vigour by them all. There is, however, a kind of life which can only be lived by man, the life which consists in conscious direction of one's actions by a rule. It is the work of man to live this kind of life, and his happiness consists in living it efficiently and well. So we may give as the definition of human well-being that it is "an active life in accord with excellence, or if there are more forms of excellence than one, in accord with the best and completest of them"; and we must add "in a complete life" to show that mere promise not crowned by performance does not suffice to entitle man's life to be called happy. We can see that this definition satisfies Plato's three conditions. A vigorous and active living in a way which calls into play the specifically human capacities of man is desirable for its own sake, and preferable to any other life which could be proposed to us. It too is the only life which can permanently satisfy men, but we must add that if such a life is to be lived adequately certain advantages of fortune must be presupposed. We cannot fully live a life of this kind if we are prevented from exercising our capacities by lack of means or health or friends and associates, and even the calamities which arise in the course of events may be so crushing as to hinder a man, for a time, from putting forth his full powers. These external good things are not constituents of happiness, but merely necessary conditions of that exercise of our own capacities which is the happy life.

In our definition of the happy life we said that it was one of activity in accord with goodness or excellence, and we left it an open question whether there are more kinds of such goodness than one. On consideration we see that two kinds of goodness or excellence are required in living the happy life. The happy life for man is a life of conscious following of a rule. To live it well, then, you need to know what the right rule to follow is, and you need also to follow it. There are persons who deliberately follow a wrong rule of life--the wicked. There are others who know what the right rule is but fail to follow it because their tempers and appetites are unruly--the morally weak. To live the happy life, then, two sorts of goodness are required. You must have a good judgment as to what the right rule is (or if you cannot find it out for yourself, you must at least be able to recognise it when it is laid down by some one else, the teacher or lawgiver), and you must have your appetites, feelings, and emotions generally so trained that they obey the rule. Hence excellence, goodness, or virtue is divided into goodness of intellect and goodness of character (moral goodness), the word character being used for the complex of tempers, feelings, and the affective side of human nature generally. In education goodness of character has to be produced by training and discipline before goodness of intellect can be imparted. The young generally have to be trained to obey the right rule before they can see for themselves that it is the right rule, and if a man's tempers and passions are not first schooled into actual obedience to the rule he will in most cases never see that it is the right rule at all. Hence Aristotle next goes on to discuss the general character of the kind of goodness he calls goodness of character, the right state of the feelings and passions.

The first step towards understanding what goodness of character is is to consider the way in which it is actually produced. We are not born with this goodness of tempers and feelings ready made, nor yet do we obtain it by theoretical instruction; it is a result of a training and discipline of the feelings and impulses. The possibility of such a training is due to the fact that feelings and impulses are rational capacities, and a rational capacity can be developed into either of two contrasted activities according to the training it receives. You cannot train stones to fall upwards, but you can train a hot temper to display itself either in the form of righteous resentment of wrong-doing or in that of violent defiance of all authority. Our natural emotions and impulses are in themselves neither good nor bad; they are the raw material out of which training makes good or bad character according to the direction it gives to them. The effect of training is to convert the indeterminate tendency into a fixed habit. We may say, then, that moral goodness is a fixed state of the soul produced by habituation. By being trained in habits of endurance, self-mastery, and fair dealing, we acquire the kind of character to which it is pleasing to act bravely, continently, and fairly, and disagreeable to act unfairly, profligately, or like a coward. When habituation has brought about this result the moral excellences in question have become part of our inmost self and we are in full possession of goodness of character. In a word, it is by repeated doing of right acts that we acquire the right kind of character.

But what general characteristics distinguish right acts and right habits from wrong ones? Aristotle is guided in answering the question by an analogy which is really at the bottom of all Greek thinking on morality. The thought is that goodness is in the soul what health and fitness are in the body, and that the preceptor is for the soul what the physician or the trainer is for the body. Now it was a well-known medical theory, favoured by both Plato and Aristotle, that health in the body means a condition of balance or equilibration among the elements of which it is composed. When the hot and the cold, the moist and the dry in the composition of the human frame exactly balance one another, the body is in perfect health. Hence the object of the regimen of the physician or the trainer is to produce and maintain a proper balance or proportion between the ingredients of the body. Any course which disturbs this balance is injurious to health and strength. You damage your health if you take too much food or exercise, and also if you take too little. The same thing is true of health in the soul. Our soul's health may be injured by allowing too much or too little play to any of our natural impulses or feelings. We may lay it down, then, that the kind of training which gives rise to a good habit is training in the avoidance of the opposite errors of the too much and the too little. And since the effect of training is to produce habits which issue in the spontaneous performance of the same kind of acts by which the habits were acquired, we may say not merely that goodness of character is produced by acts which exhibit a proper balance or mean, but that it is a settled habit of acting so as to exhibit the same balance or proportion. Hence the formal definition of goodness of character is that it is "a settled condition of the soul which wills or chooses the mean relatively to ourselves, this mean being determined by a rule or whatever we like to call that by which the wise man determines it."

There are several points in this definition of the mean upon which moral virtue depends of which we must take note unless we are to misunderstand Aristotle seriously. To begin with, the definition expressly says that "moral goodness is a state of will or choice." Thus it is not enough that one should follow the rule of the mean outwardly in one's actions; one's personal will must be regulated by it. Goodness of character is inward; it is not merely outward. Next we must not suppose that Aristotle means that the "just enough" is the same for all our feelings, that every impulse has a moral right to the same authority in shaping our conduct as any other. How much or how little is the just enough in connection with a given spring of action is one of the things which the wise man's rule has to determine, just as the wise physician's rule may determine that a very little quantity is the just enough in the case of some articles of diet or curative drugs, while in the case of others the just enough may be a considerable amount. Also the right mean is not the same for every one. What we have to attain is the mean relatively to ourselves, and this will be different for persons of different constitutions and in different conditions. It is this relativity of the just enough to the individual's personality and circumstances which makes it impossible to lay down precise rules of conduct applicable alike to everybody, and renders the practical attainment of goodness so hard. It is my duty to spend some part of my income in buying books on philosophy, but no general rule will tell me what percentage of my income is the right amount for me to spend in this way. That depends on a host of considerations, such as the excess of my income above my necessary expenses and the like. Or again, the just enough may vary with the same man according to the circumstances of the particular case. No rule of thumb application of a formula will decide such problems. Hence Aristotle insists that the right mean in the individual case has always to be determined by immediate insight. This is precisely why goodness of intellect needs to be added to goodness of character. His meaning is well brought out by an illustration which I borrow from Professor Burnet. "On a given occasion there will be a temperature which is just right for my morning bath. If the bath is hotter than this, it will be too hot; if it is colder, it will be too cold. But as this just right temperature varies with the condition of my body, it cannot be ascertained by simply using a thermometer. If I am in good general health I shall, however, know by the feel of the water when the temperature is right. So if I am in good moral health I shall know, without appealing to a formal code of maxims, what is the right degree, e.g. of indignation to show in a given case, how it should be shown and towards whom." Thus we see why Aristotle demands goodness of character as a preliminary condition of goodness of intellect or judgment in moral matters. Finally, if we ask by what rule the mean is determined, the answer will be that the rule is the judgment of the legislator who determines what is the right mean by his knowledge of the conditions on which the well-being of the community depends. He then embodies his insight in the laws which he makes and the regulations he imposes on the educators of youth. The final aim of education in goodness is to make our immediate judgment as to what is right coincide with the spirit of a wise legislation.

The introduction of the reference to will or choice into the definition of goodness of character leads Aristotle to consider the relation of will to conduct. His main object is to escape the paradoxical doctrine which superficial students might derive from the works of Plato, that wrong-doing is always well-meaning ignorance. Aristotle's point is that it is the condition of will revealed by men's acts which is the real object of our approval or blame. This is because in voluntary action the man himself is the efficient cause of his act. Hence the law recognises only two grounds on which a man may plead, that he is not answerable for what he does. (1) Actual physical compulsion by force majeure. (2) Ignorance, not due to the man's own previous negligence, of some circumstances material to the issue. When either of these pleas can be made with truth the man does not really contribute by his choice to the resulting act, and therefore is not really its cause. But a plea of ignorance of the general laws of morality does not excuse. I cannot escape responsibility for a murder by pleading that I did not know that murder is wrong. Such a plea does not exempt me from having been the cause of the murder; it only shows that my moral principles are depraved.

More precisely will is a process which has both an intellectual and an appetitive element. The appetitive element is our wish for some result. The intellectual factor is the calculation of the steps by which that result may be obtained. When we wish for the result we begin to consider how it might be brought about, and we continue our analysis until we find that the chain of conditions requisite may be started by the performance of some act now in our power to do. Will may thus be defined as the deliberate appetition of something within our power, and the very definition shows that our choice is an efficient cause of the acts we choose to do. This is why we rightly regard men as responsible or answerable for their acts of choice, good and bad alike.

From the analysis of goodness of character, we proceed to that of goodness of intellect. The important point is to decide which of all the forms of goodness of intellect is that which must be combined with goodness of character to make a man fit to be a citizen of the state. It must be a kind of intellectual excellence which makes a man see what the right rule by which the mean is determined is. Now when we come to consider the different excellences of intellect we find that they all fall under one of two heads, theoretical or speculative wisdom and practical wisdom.

Theoretical wisdom is contained in the sciences which give us universal truths about the fixed and unalterable relations of the things in the universe, or, as we should say, which teach us the laws of Nature. Its method is syllogism, the function of which is to make us see how the more complex truths are implied in simpler principles. Practical wisdom is intelligence as employed in controlling and directing human life to the production of the happy life for a community, and it is this form of intellectual excellence which we require of the statesman. It is required of him not only that he should know in general what things are good for man, but also that he should be able to judge correctly that in given circumstances such and such an act is the one which will secure the good. He must not only know the right rule itself, which corresponds to the major premiss of syllogism in theoretical science, but he must understand the character of particular acts so as to see that they fall under the right rule. Thus the method of practical wisdom will be analogous to that of theoretical wisdom. In both cases what we have to do is to see that certain special facts are cases of a general law or rule. Hence Aristotle calls the method of practical wisdom the practical syllogism or syllogism of action, since its peculiarity is that what issues from the putting together of the premisses is not an assertion but the performance of an act. In the syllogism of action, the conclusion, that is to say, the performance of a given act, just as in the syllogism of theory, is connected with the rule given in the major premiss by a statement of fact; thus e.g. the performance of a specific act such as the writing of this book is connected with the general rule what helps to spread knowledge ought to be done by the conviction that the writing of this book helps to spread knowledge. Our perception of such a fact is like a sense-perception in its directness and immediacy. We see therefore that the kind of intellectual excellence which the statesman must possess embraces at once a right conception of the general character of the life which is best for man, because it calls into play his specific capacities as a human being, and also a sound judgment in virtue of which he sees correctly that particular acts are expressions of this good for man. This, then, is what we mean by practical wisdom.

So far, then, it would seem that the best life for man is just the life of co-operation in the life of the state, which man, being the only political animal or animal capable of life in a state, has as his peculiar work, and as if the end of all moral education should be to make us good and efficient citizens. But in the Ethics, as elsewhere, the end of Aristotle's argument has a way of forgetting the beginning. We find that there is after all a still higher life open to man than that of public affairs. Affairs and business of all kinds are only undertaken as means to getting leisure, just as civilised men go to war, not for the love of war itself, but to secure peace. The highest aim of life, then, is not the carrying on of political business for its own sake, but the worthy and noble employment of leisure, the periods in which we are our own masters. It has the advantage that it depends more purely on ourselves and our own internal resources than any other life of which we know, for it needs very little equipment with external goods as compared with any form of the life of action. It calls into play the very highest of our own capacities as intelligent beings, and for that very reason the active living of it is attended with the purest of all pleasures. In it, moreover, we enter at intervals and for a little while, so far as the conditions of our mundane existence allow, into the life which God enjoys through an unbroken eternity. Thus we reach the curious paradox that while the life of contemplation is said to be that of our truest self, it is also maintained that this highest and happiest life is one which we live, not in respect of being human, but in respect of having a divine something in us. When we ask what this life of contemplation includes, we see from references in the Politics that it includes the genuinely aesthetic appreciation of good literature and music and pictorial and plastic art, but there can be no doubt that what bulks most largely in Aristotle's mind is the active pursuit of science for its own sake, particularly of such studies as First Philosophy and Physics, which deal with the fundamental structure of the universe. Aristotle thus definitely ends by placing the life of the scholar and the student on the very summit of felicity.