Part 18

p * {q entails r},

since we have found one particular proposition of the first form which does not entail the corresponding proposition of the second.

To maintain, therefore, that (2) follows from (1) is mere confusion. And one source of the confusion is, I think, pretty plain. (1) does allow you to assert that, if AP is true, then the proposition "°yP° * {°(y = A°)}" must be true. What the "must" here expresses is merely that this proposition follows from AP, not that it is in itself a necessary proposition. But it is supposed, through confusion, that what is asserted is that it is not the case both that AP is true and that "°yP° * (°y = A°)" is not, in itself, a necessary proposition; that is to say, it is supposed that what is asserted is "AP + {°yP° entails (°y = A°)}"; since to say that "°yP° * (°y = A°)" is, in itself, a necessary proposition is the same thing as to say that "°yP° entails (°y = A°)" is also true. In fact it seems to me pretty plain that what is meant by saying of propositions of the form "xP * xQ" that they are necessary (or "apodeictic") propositions, is merely that the corresponding proposition of the form "xP entails xQ" is also true, "xP entails xQ" is not itself a necessary proposition; but, if "xP entails xQ" is true, then "xP * xQ" is a necessary proposition--and a necessary truth, since no false propositions are necessary in themselves. Thus what is meant by saying that "Whatever is a right angle, is also an angle" is a necessary truth, is, so far as I can see, simply that the proposition "(x is a right angle) entails (x is an angle)" is also true. This seems to me to give what has, in fact, been generally meant in philosophy by "necessary truths," e.g. by Leibniz; and to point out the distinction between them and those true universal propositions which are "mere matters of fact." And if we want to extend the meaning of the name "necessary truth" in such a way that some singular propositions may also be said to be "necessary truths," we can, I think, easily do it as follows. We can say that AP is itself a necessary truth, if and only if the universal proposition "(x = A) * xP" (which, as we have seen, follows from AP) is a necessary truth: that is to say, if and only if (x = A) entails xP. With this definition, what the dogma of internal relations asserts is that in every case in which a given thing actually has a given relational property, the fact that it has that property is a necessary truth; whereas what I am asserting is that, if the property in question is an "internal" property, then the fact in question will be a necessary truth, whereas if the property in question is "external," then the fact in question will be a mere "matter of fact."

So much for the distinction between (1) which is true, and (2), or the dogma of internal relations, which I hold to be false. But I said above, in passing, that my contention that (2) does not follow from (1), involves the rejection of certain views that have sometimes been held as to the meaning of "follows"; and I think it is worth while to say something about this.

It is obvious that the possibility of maintaining that (2) does not follow from (1), depends upon its being true that from "xP * xQ" the proposition "xP entails xQ" does not follow. And this has sometimes been disputed, and is, I think, often not clearly seen.

To begin with, Mr. Russell, in the Principles of Mathematics (p. 34), treats the phrase "q can be deduced from p" as if it meant exactly the same thing as "p * q" or "p materially implies q"; and has repeated the same error elsewhere, e.g. in Philosophical Essays (p. 166), where he is discussing what he calls the axiom of internal relations. And I am afraid a good many people have been led to suppose that, since Mr. Russell has said this, it must be true. If it were true, then, of course, it would be impossible to distinguish between (1) and (2), and it would follow that, since (1) certainly is true, what I am calling the dogma of internal relations is true too. But I imagine that Mr. Russell himself would now be willing to admit that, so far from being true, the statement that "q can be deduced from p" means the same as "p * q" is simply an enormous "howler"; and I do not think I need spend any time in trying to show that it is so.

But it may be held that, though "p entails q" does not mean the same as "p * q," yet nevertheless from "xP * xQ" the proposition "xP entails xQ" does follow, for a somewhat more subtle reason; and, if this were so, it would again follow that what I am calling the dogma of internal relations must be true. It may be held, namely, that though "AP entails AQ" does not mean simply "AP * AQ" yet what it does mean is simply the conjunction "AP * AQ and this proposition is an instance of a true formal implication" (the phrase "formal implication" being understood in Mr. Russell's sense, in which "xP * xQ" asserts a formal implication). This view as to what "AP entails AQ" means, has, for instance, if I understand him rightly, been asserted by Mr. O. Strachey in Mind, N.S., 93. And the same view has been frequently suggested (though I do not know that he has actually asserted it) by Mr. Russell himself (e.g., Principia Mathematica, p. 21). If this view were true, then, though "xP entails xQ" would not be identical in meaning with "xP * xQ," yet it would follow from it; since, if

xP * xQ

were true, then every particular assertion of the form AP * AQ, would not only be true, but would be an instance of a true formal implication (namely "xP * xQ") and this, according to the proposed definition, is all that "xP entails xQ" asserts. If, therefore, it were true, it would again follow that all relational properties must be internal. But that this view also is untrue appears to me perfectly obvious. The proposition that I am in this room does "materially imply" that I am more than five years old, since both are true; and the assertion that it does is also an instance of a true formal implication, since it is in fact true that all the persons in this room are more than five years old; but nothing appears to me more obvious than that the second of these two propositions can not be deduced from the first--that the kind of relation which holds between the premisses and conclusion of a syllogism in Barbara does not hold between them. To put it in another way: it seems to me quite obvious that the properties "being a person in this room" and "being more than five years old" are not related in the kind of way in which "being a right angle" is related to "being an angle," and which we express by saying that, in the case of every term, the proposition that that term is an angle can be deduced from the proposition that it is a right angle.

These are the only two suggestions as to the meaning of "p entails q" known to me, which, if true, would yield the result that (2) does follow from (1), and that therefore all relational properties are internal; and both of these, it seems to me, are obviously false. All other suggested meanings, so far as I know, would leave it true that (2) does not follow from (1), and therefore that I may possibly be right in maintaining that some relational properties are external. It might, for instance, be suggested that the last proposed definition should be amended as follows--that we should say: "p entails q" means "p * q and this proposition is an instance of a formal implication, which is not merely true but self-evident, like the laws of Formal Logic." This proposed definition would avoid the paradoxes involved in Mr. Strachey's definition, since such true formal implications as "all the persons in this room are more than five years old" are certainly not self-evident; and, so far as I. can see, it may state something which is in fact true of p and q, whenever and only when p entails q. I do not myself think that it gives the meaning of "p entails q," since the kind of relation which I see to hold between the premisses and conclusion of a syllogism seems to me to be one which is purely "objective" in the sense that no psychological term, such as is involved in the meaning of "self-evident," is involved in its definition (if it has one). I am not, however, concerned to dispute that some such definition of "p entails q" as this may be true. Since it is evident that, even if it were, my proposition that "xP entails xQ" does not follow from "xP * xQ," would still be true; and hence also my contention that (2) does not follow from (1).

So much by way of arguing that we are not bound to hold that all relational properties are internal in the particular sense, with which we are now concerned, in which to say that they are means that in every case in which a thing A has a relational property, it follows from the proposition that a term has not got that property that the term in question is other than A. But I have gone further and asserted that some relational properties certainly are not internal. And in defence of this proposition I do not know that I have anything to say but that it seems to me evident in many cases that a term which has a certain relational property might quite well not have had it: that, for instance, from the mere proposition that this is this, it by no means follows that this has to other things all the relations which it in fact has. Everybody, of course, must admit that if all the propositions which assert of it that it has these properties, do in fact follow from the proposition that this is this, we cannot see that they do. And so far as I can see, there is no reason of any kind for asserting that they do, except the confusion which I have exposed. But it seems to me further that we can see in many cases that the proposition that this has that relation does not follow from the fact that it is this: that, for instance, the proposition that Edward VII was father of George V is a mere matter of fact.

I want now to return for a moment to that other meaning of "internal," (p. 286) in which to say that P is internal to A means not merely that anything which had not P would necessarily be other than A, but that it would necessarily be qualitatively different. I said that this was the meaning of "internal" in which the dogma of internal relations holds that all relational properties are "internal"; and that one of the most important consequences which followed from it, was that all relational properties are "internal" in the less extreme sense that we have just been considering. But, if I am not mistaken, there is another important consequence which also follows from it, namely, the Identity of Indiscernibles. For if it be true, in the case of every relational property, that any term which had net that property would necessarily be qualitatively different from any which had, it follows of course that, in the case of two terms one of which has a relational property, which the other has not the two are qualitatively different. But, from the proposition that x is other than y, it does follow that x has some relational property which y has not; and hence, if the dogma of internal relations be true, it will follow that if x is other than y, x is always also qualitatively different from y, which is the principle of Identity of Indiscernibles. This is, of course, a further objection to the dogma of internal relations, since I think it is obvious that the principle of Identity of Indiscernibles is not true. Indeed, so far as I can see, the dogma of internal relations essentially consists in the joint assertion of two indefensible propositions: (1) the proposition that in the case of no relational property is it true of any term which has got that property, that it might not have had it and (2) the Identity of Indiscernibles.

I want, finally, to say something about the phrase which Mr. Russell uses in the Philosophical Essays to express the dogma of internal relations. He says it may be expressed in the form "Every relation is grounded in the natures of the related terms" (p. 160). And it can be easily seen, if the account which I have given be true, in what precise sense it does hold this. Mr. Russell is uncertain as to whether by "the nature" of a term is to be understood the term itself or something else. For my part it seems to me that by a term's nature is meant, not the term itself, but what may roughly be called all its qualities as distinguished from its relational properties. But whichever meaning we take, it will follow from what I have said, that the dogma of internal relations does imply that every relational property which a term has is, in a perfectly precise sense, grounded in its nature. It will follow that every such property is grounded in the term, in the sense that, in the case of every such property, it follows from the mere proposition that that term is that term that it has the property in question. And it will also follow that any such property is grounded in the qualities which the term has, in the sense, that if you take all the qualities which the term has, it will again follow in the case of each relational property, from the proposition that the term has all those qualities that it has the relational property in question; since this is implied by the proposition that in the case of any such property, any term which had not had it would necessarily have been different in quality from the term in question. In both of these two senses, then, the dogma of internal relations does, I think, imply that every relational property is grounded in the nature of every term which possesses it; and in this sense that proposition is false. Yet it is worth noting, I think, that there is another sense of "grounded" in which it may quite well be true that every relational property is grounded in the nature of any term which possesses it. Namely that, in the case of every such property, the term in question has some quality without which it could not have had the property. In other words that the relational property entails some quality in the term, though no quality in the term entails the relational property.

THE NATURE OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY

I should like, if I can, to interest you to-night in one particular question about Moral Philosophy. It is a question which resembles most philosophical questions, in respect of the fact that philosophers are by no means agreed as to what is the right answer to it: some seem to be very strongly convinced that one answer is correct, while others are equally strongly convinced of the opposite. For my own part I do feel some doubt as to which answer is the right one, although, as you will see, I incline rather strongly to one of the two alternatives. I should like very much, if I could, to find some considerations which seemed to me absolutely convincing on the one side or the other; for the question seems to me in itself to be an exceedingly interesting one.

I have said that the question is a question about Moral Philosophy; and it seems to me in fact to be a very large and general question which affects the whole of Moral Philosophy. In asking it, we are doing no less than asking what it is that people are doing when they study Moral Philosophy at all: we are asking what sort of questions it is which it is the business of Moral Philosophy to discuss and try to find the right answer to. But I intend, for the sake of simplicity, to confine myself to asking it in two particular instances. Moral Philosophy has, in fact, to discuss a good many different ideas; and though I think this same question may be raised with regard to them all, I intend to pick out two, which seem to me particularly fundamental, and to ask it with regard to them only.

My first business must be to explain what these two ideas are.

The name Moral Philosophy naturally suggests that what is meant is a department of philosophy which has something to do with morality. And we all understand roughly what is meant by morality. We are accustomed to the distinction between moral good and evil, on the one hand, and what is sometimes called physical good and evil on the other. We all make the distinction between a man's moral character, on the one hand, and his agreeableness or intellectual endowments, on the other. We feel that to accuse a man of immoral conduct is quite a different thing from accusing him merely of bad taste or bad manners, or from accusing him merely of stupidity or ignorance. And no less clearly we distinguish between the idea of being under a moral obligation to do a thing, and the idea of being merely under a legal obligation to do it. It is a commonplace that the sphere of morality is much wider than the sphere of law: that we are morally bound to do and avoid many things, which are not enjoined or forbidden by the laws of our country; and it is also sometimes held that, if a particular law is unjust or immoral, it may even be a moral duty to disobey it--that is to say that there may be a positive conflict between moral and legal obligation; and the mere fact that this is held, whether truly or falsely, shows, at all events, that the one idea is quite distinct from the other.

The name Moral Philosophy, then, naturally suggests that it is a department of philosophy concerned with morality in this common sense. And it is, in fact, true that one large department of Moral Philosophy is so concerned. But it would be a mistake to think that the whole subject is only concerned with morality. Another important department of it is, as I shall try to show, concerned with ideas which are not moral ideas, in this ordinary sense, though, no doubt, they may have something to do with them. And of the two ideas which I propose to pick out for discussion, while one of them is a moral idea, the other belongs to that department of Moral Philosophy, which is not concerned solely with morality, and is not, I think, properly speaking, a moral idea at all.

Let us begin with the one of the two, which is a moral idea.

The particular moral idea which I propose to pick out for discussion is the one which I have called above the idea of moral obligation--the idea of being morally bound to act in a particular way on a particular occasion. But what is, so far as I can see, precisely the same idea is also called by several other names. To say that I am under a moral obligation to do a certain thing is, I think, clearly to say the same thing as what we commonly express by saying that I ought to do it, or that it is my duty to do it. That is to say, the idea of moral obligation is identical with the idea of the moral "ought" and with the idea of duty. And it also seems at first sight as if we might make yet another identification.

The assertion that I ought to do a certain thing seems as if it meant much the same as the assertion that it would be wrong of me not to do the thing in question: at all events it is quite clear that, whenever it is my duty to do anything, it would be wrong of me not to do it, and that whenever it would be wrong of me to do anything, then it is my duty to refrain from doing it. In the case of these two ideas, the idea of what is wrong, and the idea of what is my duty or what I ought to do, different views may be taken as to whether the one is more fundamental than the other, or whether both are equally so; and on the question: If one of the two is more fundamental than the other, which of the two is so? Thus some people would say, that the idea of "wrong" is the more fundamental, and that the idea of "duty" is to be defined in terms of it: that, in fact, the statement "It is my duty to keep that promise" merely means "It would be wrong of me not to keep it"; and the statement "It is my duty not to tell a lie" merely means "It would be wrong of me to tell one." Others again would apparently say just the opposite: that duty is the more fundamental notion, and "wrong" is to be defined in terms of it. While others perhaps would hold that neither is more fundamental than the other; that both are equally fundamental, and that the statement "it would be wrong to do so and so" is only equivalent to, not identical in meaning with, "I ought not to do it." But whichever of these three views be the true one, there is, I think, no doubt whatever about the equivalence notion of the two ideas; and no doubt, therefore, that whatever answer be given to the question I am going to raise about the one, the same answer must be given to the corresponding question about the other.

The moral idea, then, which I propose to discuss, is the idea of duty or moral obligation, or, what comes to the same thing, the idea of what is wrong--morally wrong. Everybody would agree that this idea--or, to speak more accurately, one or both of these two ideas--is among the most fundamental of our moral ideas, whether or not they would admit that all others, for example the ideas of moral goodness, involve a reference to this one in their definition, or would hold that we have some others which are independent of it, and equally fundamental with it.

But there is a good deal of difficulty in getting clear as to what this idea of moral obligation itself is. Is there in fact only one idea which we call by this name? Or is it possible that on some occasions when we say that so and so is a duty, we mean something different by this expression from what we do on others? And that similarly when we say that so and so is morally wrong, we sometimes use this name "morally wrong" for one idea and sometimes for another; so that one and the same thing may be "morally wrong" in one sense of the word, and yet not morally wrong in another? I think, in fact, there are two different senses in which we use these terms; and to point out the difference between them, will help to bring out clearly more the nature of each. And I think perhaps the difference can be brought out most clearly by considering the sort of moral rules with which we are all of us familiar.

Everybody knows that moral teachers are largely concerned in laying down moral rules, and in disputing the truth of rules which have been previously accepted. And moral rules seem to consist, to a very large extent, in assertions to the effect that it is always wrong to do certain actions or to refrain from doing certain others; or (what comes to the same thing) that it is always your duty to refrain from certain actions, and positively to do certain others. The Ten Commandments for example, are instances of moral rules; and most of them are examples of what are called negative rules--that is to say rules which assert merely that it is wrong to do certain positive actions, and therefore our duty to refrain from these actions; instead of rules which assert of certain positive actions, that it is our duty to do them and therefore wrong to refrain from doing them. The fifth commandment, which tells us to honour our father and mother, is apparently an exception; it seems to be a positive rule. It is not, like the others, expressed in the negative form "Thou shalt not do so and so," and it is apparently really meant to assert that we ought to do certain positive actions, not merely that there are some positive action from which we ought to refrain. The difference between this one and the rest will thus serve as an example of the difference between positive and negative moral rules, a difference which is sometimes treated as if it were of great importance. And I do not wish to deny that there may be some important difference between seeing only that certain positive actions are wrong, and seeing also that, in certain cases, to refrain from doing certain actions is just as wrong as positively to do certain others. But this distinction between positive and negative rules is certainly of much less importance than another which is, I think, liable to be confused with it. So far as this distinction goes it is only a distinction between an assertion that it is wrong to do a positive action and an assertion that it is wrong to refrain from doing one: and each of these assertions is equivalent to one which asserts a duty--the first with an assertion that it is a duty to refrain, the second with an assertion that a positive action is a duty. But there is another distinction between some moral rules and others, which is of much greater importance than this one, and which does, I think, give a reason for thinking that the term "moral obligation" is actually used in different senses on different occasions.

I have said that moral rules seem to consist, to a large extent, in assertions to the effect that it is always wrong to do certain actions or to refrain from doing certain others, or the equivalent assertions in terms of duty. But there is a large class of moral rules, with which we are all of us very familiar, which do not come under this definition. They are rules which are concerned not with our actions, in the natural sense of the word, but with our feelings, thoughts and desires. An illustration of this kind of rule can again be given from the Ten Commandments. Most of the ten, as we all know, are concerned merely with actions; but the tenth at least is clearly an exception. The tenth says "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, nor his wife, nor his servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is his," and, unless "covet" is merely a mistranslation of a word which stands for some kind of action, we plainly have here a rule which is concerned with our feelings and not with our actions. And one reason which makes the distinction between rules of this kind and rules concerned with actions important, is that our feelings are not, as a rule, directly within the control of our will in the sense in which many of our actions are. I cannot, for instance, by any single act of will directly prevent from arising in my mind a desire for something that belongs to some one else, even if, when once the desire has arrived, I can by my will prevent its continuance; and even this last I can hardly do directly but only by forcing myself to attend to other considerations which may extinguish the desire. But though I thus cannot prevent myself altogether from coveting my neighbour's possessions, I can altogether prevent myself from stealing them. The action of stealing, and the feeling of covetousness, are clearly on a very different level in this respect. The action is directly within the control of my will, whereas the feeling is not. If I will not to take the thing (though of course some people may find a great difficulty in willing this) it does in general follow directly that I do not take it; whereas, it I will not to desire it, it emphatically does not, even in general, follow directly that no desire for it will be there. This distinction between the way in which our feelings and our actions are under the control of our wills is, I think, a very real one indeed; we cannot help constantly recognising that it exists. And it has an important bearing on the distinction between those moral rules which deal with actions and those which deal with feelings, for the following reason. The philosopher Kant laid down a well-known proposition to the effect that "ought" implies "can": that is to say, that it cannot be true that you "ought" to do a thing, unless it is true that you could do it, if you chose. And as regards one of the senses in which we commonly use the words "ought" and "duty," I think this rule is plainly true. When we say absolutely of ourselves or others, "I ought to do so and so" or "you ought to," we imply, I think, very often that the thing in question is a thing which we could do, if we chose; though of course it may often be a thing which it is very difficult to choose to do. Thus it is clear that I cannot truly say of anyone that he ought to do a certain thing, if it is a thing which it is physically impossible for him to do, however desirable it may be that the thing should be done. And in this sense it is clear that it cannot be truly said of me that I ought not to have a certain feeling, or that I ought not to have had it, if it is a feeling which I could not, by any effort of my will, prevent myself from having. The having or the prevention of a certain feeling is not, of course, strictly ever a physical impossibility, but it is very often impossible, in exactly the same sense, in which actions are physically impossible--that is to say that I could not possibly get it or prevent it, even if I would. But this being so, it is plain that such a moral rule as that I ought not to covet my neighbour's possessions is, if it means to assert that I ought not, in that sense in which "ought" implies "can," a rule which cannot possibly be true. What it appears to assert is, absolutely universally, of every feeling of covetousness, that the feeling in question is one which the person who felt it ought not to have felt. But in fact a very large proportion of such feelings (I am inclined to say the vast majority) are feelings which the person who felt them could not have prevented feeling, if he would: they were beyond the control of his will. And hence it is quite emphatically not true that none of these feelings ought to have been felt, if we are using "ought" in the sense which implies that the person who felt them could have avoided them. So far from its being true that absolutely none of them ought to have been felt, this is only true of those among them, probably a small minority, which the person who felt them could have avoided feeling. If, therefore, moral rules with regard to feelings are to have a chance of being nearly true, we must understand the "ought" which occurs in them in some other sense. But with moral rules that refer to actions the case is very different. Take stealing for example. Here again what the Eighth Commandment appears to imply is that absolutely every theft which has ever occurred was an act which the agent ought not to have done; and, if the "ought" is the one which implies "can," it implies, therefore, that every theft was an act which the agent, if he had chosen, could have avoided. And this statement that every theft which has been committed was an act which the thief, if he had so willed, could have avoided, though it may be doubted if it is absolutely universally true, is not a statement which is clearly absurd, like the statement that every covetous desire could have been avoided by the will of the person who felt it. It is probable that the vast majority of acts of theft have been acts which it was in the power of the thief to avoid, if he had willed to do so; whereas this is clearly not true of the vast majority of covetous desires. It is, therefore, quite possible that those who believe we ought never to steal are using "ought" in a sense which implies that stealing always could have been avoided; whereas it is I think quite certain that many of those who believe that we ought to avoid all covetous desires, do not believe for a moment that every covetous desire that has ever been felt was a desire which the person who felt it could have avoided feeling, if he had chosen. And yet they certainly do believe, in some sense or other, that no covetous desire ought ever to have been felt. The conclusion is, therefore, it seems to me, unavoidable that we do use "ought," the moral "ought," in two different senses; the one a sense in which to say that I ought to have done so and so does really imply that I could have done it, if I had chosen, and the other a sense in which it carries with it no such implication. I think perhaps the difference between the two can be expressed in this way. If we express the meaning of the first "ought," the one which does imply "can," by saying that "I ought to have done so and so" means "It actually was my duty to do it"; we can express the meaning of the second by saying that e.g. "I ought not to have felt so and so" means not "it was my duty to avoid that feeling," but "it would have been my duty to avoid it, if I had been able." And corresponding to these two meanings of "ought" we should, I think, probably distinguish two different sorts of moral rules, which though expressed in the same language, do in fact mean very different things. The one is a set of rules which assert (whether truly or falsely) that it always actually is a duty to do or to refrain from certain actions, and assert therefore that it always is in the power of the agent's will to do or to refrain from them; whereas the other sort only assert that so and so would be a duty, if it were within our power, without at all asserting that it always is within our power.

We may, perhaps, give a name to the distinction I mean, by calling the first kind of rules--those which do assert that something actually is a duty--"rules of duty," and by calling the second kind--those which recommend or condemn something not in the control of our wills--"ideal rules": choosing this latter name because they can be said to inculcate a moral "ideal"--something the attainment of which is not directly within the power of our wills. As a further example of the difference between ideal rules and rules of duty we may take the famous passage from the New Testament (Luke 6, 27) "Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you." Of these four rules, the three last may be rules of duty, because they refer to things which are plainly, as a rule, at least, in the power of your will; but the first, if "love" be understood in its natural sense as referring to your feelings, is plainly only an "ideal" rule, since such feelings are obviously not directly under our own control, in the same way in which such actions as doing good to, blessing or praying for a person are so. To love certain people, or to feel no anger against them, is a thing which it is quite impossible to attain directly by will, or perhaps ever to attain completely at all. Whereas your behaviour towards them is a matter within your own control: even if you hate a person, or feel angry with him, you can so control yourself as not to do him harm, and even to confer benefits upon him. To do good to your enemies may, then, really be your duty; but it cannot, in the strict sense, be your duty not to have evil feelings towards them: all that can possibly be true is that it would be your duty if you were able. Yet I think there can be no doubt that what Christ meant to condemn was the occurrence of such feelings altogether; and since, if what he meant to assert about them in condemning them, would have been certainly false, if he had meant to say that you could avoid ever feeling them, I think it is clear that what he meant to assert was not this, or not this only, but something else, which may quite possibly be true. That is to say, he was asserting an ideal rule, not merely a rule of duty.

It will be seen that this distinction which I am making coincides, roughly at all events, with the distinction which is often expressed as the distinction between rules which tell you what you ought to be and rules which tell you merely what you ought to do; or as the distinction between rules which are concerned with your inner life--with your thoughts and feelings--and those which are concerned only with your external actions. The rules which are concerned with what you ought to be or with your inner life are, for the most part at all events, "ideal" rules; while those which are concerned with what you ought to do or your external actions are very often, at least, rules of duty. And it is often said that one great difference between the New Testament and the Old is its comparatively greater insistence on "ideal" rules--upon a change of heart--as opposed to mere rules of duty. And that there is a comparatively greater insistence on ideal rules I do not wish to deny. But that there are plenty of ideal rules in the Old Testament too must not be forgotten. I have already given an example from the Ten Commandments: namely the rule which says you ought not to covet anything which belongs to your neighbour. And another is supplied by the Old Testament commandment, "Love thy neighbour as thyself," if by "love" is here meant a feeling which is not within our own control, and not merely that the Jew is to help other Jews by his external actions. Indeed, however great may be the difference between the Old Testament and the New in respect of comparative insistence on ideal rules rather than rules of duty, I am inclined to think that there is at least as great a difference, illustrated by this very rule, in another, quite different, respect--namely in the kind of rules, both ideal and of duty, which are insisted on. For whereas by "thy neighbour" in the Old Testament there is plainly meant only other Jews, and it is not conceived either that it is the duty of a Jew to help foreigners in general, or an ideal for him to love them; in the New Testament, where the same words are used, "my neighbour" plainly is meant to include all mankind. And this distinction between the view that beneficent action and benevolent feelings should be confined to those of our own nation, and the view that both should be extended equally to all mankind,--a distinction which has nothing to do with the distinction between being and doing, between inner and outer, but affects both equally--is, I am inclined to think, at least as important a difference between New Testament and Old, as the comparatively greater insistence on "ideal" rules. However, the point upon which I want at present to insist is the distinction between ideal rules and rules of duty. Both kinds are commonly included among moral rules, and, as my examples have shown, are often mentioned together as if no great difference were seen between them. What I want to insist on is that there is a great difference between them: that whereas rules of duty do directly assert of the idea of duty, in the sense in which to say that something is your duty implies that you can do it, that certain things are duties, the "ideal" rules do not assert this, but something different. Yet the "ideal" rules certainly do, in a sense, assert a "moral obligation." And hence we have to recognise that the phrase "moral obligation" is not merely a name for one idea only, but for two very different ideas; and the same will, of course, be true of the corresponding phrase "morally wrong."