No More Learning

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.

It is from this doctrine that mediaeval Christianity derives its
opposition between the _vita contemplativa_ and _vita activa_ and its
preference for the former, though in the mediaeval mind the contemplative
life has come to mean generally a kind of brooding over theological
speculations and of absorption in mystical ecstasy very foreign to the
spirit of Aristotle. The types by which the contrast of the two lives
is illustrated, Rachael and Leah, Mary and Martha, are familiar to all
readers of Christian literature.

+The Theory of the State+. --Man is by nature a political animal, a being
who can only develop his capacities by sharing in the life of a
community. Hence Aristotle definitely rejects the view that the state
or society is a mere creature of convention or agreement, an institution
made by compact between individuals for certain special ends, not
growing naturally out of the universal demands and aspirations of
humanity. Mankind, he urges, have never existed at all as isolated
individuals. Some rudimentary form of social organisation is to be
found wherever men are to be found. The actual stages in the
development of social organisation have been three--the family, the
village community, the city state. In the very rudest forms of social
life known to us, the patriarchal family, not the individual, is the
social unit. Men lived at first in separate families under the control
of the head of the family. Now a family is made up in its simplest form
of at least three persons, a man, his wife, and a servant or slave to do
the hard work, though very poor men often have to replace the servant by
an ox as the drudge of all work. Children when they come swell the
number, and thus we see the beginnings of complex social relations of
subordination in the family itself. It involves three such distinct
relations, that of husband and wife, that of parent and child, that of
master and man. The family passes into the village community, partly by
the tendency of several families of common descent to remain together
under the direction of the oldest male member of the group, partly by
the association of a number of distinct families for purposes of mutual
help and protection against common dangers. Neither of these forms of
association, however, makes adequate provision for the most permanent
needs of human nature. Complete security for a permanent supply of
material necessaries and adequate protection only come when a number of
such scattered communities pool their resources, and surround themselves
with a city wall. The city state, which has come into being in this way,
proves adequate to provide from its own internal resources for all the
spiritual as well as the material needs of its members. Hence the
independent city state does not grow as civilisation advances into any
higher form of organisation, as the family and village grew into it. It
is the end, the last word of social progress. It is amazing to us that
this piece of cheap conservatism should have been uttered at the very
time when the system of independent city states had visibly broken down,
and a former pupil of Aristotle himself was founding a gigantic empire
to take their place as the vehicle of civilisation.

The end for which the state exists is not merely its own
self-perpetuation. As we have seen, Aristotle assigns a higher value to
the life of the student than to the life of practical affairs. Since it
is only in the civilised state that the student can pursue his vocation,
the ultimate reason for which the state exists is to educate its
citizens in such a way as shall fit them to make the noble use of
leisure. In the end the state itself is a means to the spiritual
cultivation of its individual members. This implies that the chosen few,
who have a vocation to make full use of the opportunities provided for
leading this life of noble leisure, are the real end for the sake of
which society exists. The other citizens who have no qualification for
any life higher than that of business and affairs are making the most of
themselves in devoting their lives to the conduct and maintenance of the
organisation whose full advantages they are unequal to share in. It is
from this point of view also that Aristotle treats the social problem of
the existence of a class whose whole life is spent in doing the hard
work of society, and thus setting the citizen body free to make the best
use it can of leisure. In the conditions of life in the Greek world
this class consisted mainly of slaves, and thus the problem Aristotle
has to face is the moral justifiability of slavery. We must remember
that he knew slavery only in its comparatively humane Hellenic form. The
slaves of whom he speaks were household servants and assistants in small
businesses. He had not before his eyes the system of enormous
industries carried on by huge gangs of slaves under conditions of
revolting degradation which disgraced the later Roman Republic and the
early Roman Empire, or the Southern States of North America. His
problems are in all essentials much the same as those which concern us
to-day in connection with the social position of the classes who do the
hard bodily work of the community.

Much consideration is given in the _Politics_ to the classification of
the different types of constitution possible for the city-state. The
current view was that there are three main types distinguished by the
number of persons who form the sovereign political authority, monarchy,
in which sovereign power belongs to a single person; oligarchy, in which
it is in the hands of a select few; democracy, in which it is enjoyed by
the whole body of the citizens. Aristotle observes, correctly, that the
really fundamental distinction between a Greek oligarchy and a Greek
democracy was that the former was government by the propertied classes,
the latter government by the masses. Hence the watchword of democracy
was always that all political rights should belong equally to all
citizens, that of oligarchy that a man's political status should be
graded according to his "stake in the country. " Both ideals are,
according to him, equally mistaken, since the real end of government,
which both overlook, is the promotion of the "good life. " In a state
which recognises this ideal, an aristocracy or government by the best,
only the "best" men will possess the full rights of citizenship, whether
they are many or few. There might even be a monarch at the head of such
a state, if it happened to contain some one man of outstanding
intellectual and moral worth. Such a state should be the very opposite
of a great imperial power. It should, that its cultivation may be the
more intensive, be as small as is compatible with complete independence
of outside communities for its material and spiritual sustenance, and
its territory should only be large enough to provide its members with
the permanent possibility of ample leisure, so long as they are content
with plain and frugal living. Though it ought not, for military and
other reasons, to be cut off from communication with the sea, the great
military and commercial high road of the Greek world, it ought not to be
near enough to the coast to run any risk of imperilling its moral
cultivation by becoming a great emporium, like the Athens of Pericles.
In the organisation of the society care should be taken to exclude the
agricultural and industrial population from full citizenship, which
carries with it the right to appoint and to be appointed as
administrative magistrates. This is because these classes, having no
opportunity for the worthy employment of leisure, cannot be trusted to
administer the state for the high ends which it is its true function to
further.

Thus Aristotle's political ideal is that of a small but leisured and
highly cultivated aristocracy, without large fortunes or any remarkable
differences in material wealth, free from the spirit of adventure and
enterprise, pursuing the arts and sciences quietly while its material
needs are supplied by the labour of a class excluded from citizenship,
kindly treated but without prospects. Weimar, in the days when
Thackeray knew it as a lad, would apparently reproduce the ideal better
than any other modern state one can think of.

The object of the _Politics_ is, however, not merely to discuss the
ideal state but to give practical advice to men who might be looking
forward to actual political life, and would therefore largely have to be
content with making the best of existing institutions. In the absence
of the ideal aristocracy, Aristotle's preference is for what he calls
Polity or constitutional government, a sort of compromise between
oligarchy and democracy. Of course a practical statesman may have to
work with a theoretically undesirable constitution, such as an oligarchy
or an unqualified democracy. But it is only in an ideal constitution
that the education which makes its subject a good man, in the
philosopher's sense of the word, will also make him a good citizen. If
the constitution is bad, then the education best fitted to make a man
loyal to it may have to be very different from that which you would
choose to make him a good man. The discussion of the kind of education
desirable for the best kind of state, in which to be a loyal citizen and
to be a good man are the same thing, is perhaps the most permanently
valuable part of the _Politics_. Though Aristotle's writings on
"practical" philosophy have been more read in modern times than any
other part of his works, they are far from being his best and most
thorough performances. In no department of his thought is he quite so
slavishly dependent on his master Plato as in the theory of the "good
for man" and the character of "moral" excellence. No Aristotelian work
is quite so commonplace in its handling of a vast subject as the
_Politics_. In truth his interest in these social questions is not of
the deepest. He is, in accordance with his view of the superiority of
"theoretical science," entirely devoid of the spirit of the social
reformer. What he really cares about is "theology" and "physics," and
the fact that the objects of the educational regulations of the
_Politics_ are all designed to encourage the study of these
"theoretical" sciences, makes this section of the _Politics_ still one
of the most valuable expositions of the aims and requirements of a
"liberal" education.

All education must be under public control, and education must be
universal and compulsory. Public control is necessary, not merely to
avoid educational anarchy, but because it is a matter of importance to
the community that its future citizens should be trained in the way
which will make them most loyal to the constitution and the ends it is
designed to subserve. Even in one of the "bad" types of state, where
the life which the constitution tends to foster is not the highest, the
legislator's business is to see that education is directed towards
fostering the "spirit of the constitution. " There is to be an
"atmosphere" which impregnates the whole of the teaching, and it is to
be an "atmosphere" of public spirit. The only advantage which Aristotle
sees in private education is that it allows of more modification of
programme to meet the special needs of the individual pupil than a rigid
state education which is to be the same for all. The actual regulations
which Aristotle lays down are not very different from those of Plato.
Both philosophers hold that "primary" education, in the early years of
life, should aim partly at promoting bodily health and growth by a
proper system of physical exercises, partly at influencing character and
giving a refined and elevated tone to the mind by the study of letters,
art, and music. Both agree that this should be followed in the later
"teens" by two or three years of specially rigorous systematic military
training combined with a taste of actual service in the less exhausting
and less dangerous parts of a soldier's duty. It is only after this, at
about the age at which young men now take a "university" course, that
Plato and Aristotle would have the serious scientific training of the
intellect begun. The _Politics_ leaves the subject just at the point
where the young men are ready to undergo their special military
training. Thus we do not know with certainty what scientific curriculum
Aristotle would have recommended, though we may safely guess that it
would have contained comparatively little pure mathematics, but a great
deal of astronomy, cosmology, and biology.

With respect to the "primary" education Aristotle has a good deal to
say. As "forcing" is always injurious, it should not be begun too soon.
For the first five years a child's life should be given up to healthy
play. Great care must be taken that children are not allowed to be too
much with "servants," from whom they may imbibe low tastes, and that
they are protected against any familiarity with indecency. From five to
seven a child may begin to make a first easy acquaintance with the life
of the school by looking on at the lessons of its elders. The real work
of school education is to begin at seven and not before.

We next have to consider what should be the staple subjects of an
education meant not for those who are to follow some particular calling,
but for all the full citizens of a state. Aristotle's view is that some
"useful" subjects must, of course, be taught. Reading and writing, for
instance, are useful for the discharge of the business of life, though
their commercial utility is not the highest value which they have for
us. But care must be taken that only those "useful" studies which are
also "liberal" should be taught; "illiberal" or "mechanical" subjects
must not have any place in the curriculum. A "liberal" education means,
as the name shows, one which will tend to make its recipient a "free
man," and not a slave in body and soul. The mechanical crafts were felt
by Aristotle to be illiberal because they leave a man no leisure to make
the best of body and mind; practice of them sets a stamp on the body and
narrows the mind's outlook. In principle then, no study should form a
subject of the universal curriculum if its only value is that it
prepares a man for a profession followed as a means of making a living.
General education, all-round training which aims at the development of
body and mind for its own sake, must be kept free from the intrusion of
everything which has a merely commercial value and tends to contract the
mental vision. It is the same principle which we rightly employ
ourselves when we maintain that a university education ought not to
include specialisation on merely "technical" or "professional" studies.
The useful subjects which have at the same time a higher value as
contributing to the formation of taste and character and serving to
elevate and refine the mind include, besides reading and writing, which
render great literature accessible to us, bodily culture (the true
object of which is not merely to make the body strong and hardy, but to
develop the moral qualities of grace and courage), music, and drawing.
Aristotle holds that the real reason for making children learn music is
(1) that the artistic appreciation of really great music is one of the
ways in which "leisure" may be worthily employed, and to appreciate
music rightly we must have some personal training in musical execution;
(2) that all art, and music in particular, has a direct influence on
character.

Plato and Aristotle, though they differ on certain points of detail, are
agreed that the influence of music on character, for good or bad, is
enormous. Music, they say, is the most imitative of all the arts. The
various rhythms, times, and scales imitate different tempers and
emotional moods, and it is a fundamental law of our nature that we grow
like what we take pleasure in seeing or having imitated or represented
for us. Hence if we are early accustomed to take pleasure in the
imitation of the manly, resolute, and orderly, these qualities will in
time become part of our own nature. This is why right musical education
is so important that Plato declared that the revolutionary spirit always
makes its first appearance in innovations on established musical form.

There is, however, one important difference between the two philosophers
which must be noted, because it concerns Aristotle's chief contribution
to the philosophy of fine art. Plato had in the _Republic_ proposed to
expel florid, languishing, or unduly exciting forms of music not only
from the schoolroom, but from life altogether, on the ground of their
unwholesome tendency to foster an unstable and morbid character in those
who enjoy them. For the same reason he had proposed the entire
suppression of tragic drama. Aristotle has a theory which is directly
aimed against this overstrained Puritanism. He holds that the exciting
and sensational art which would be very bad as daily food may be very
useful as an occasional medicine for the soul. He would retain even the
most sensational forms of music on account of what he calls their
"purgative" value. In the same spirit he asserts that the function of
tragedy, with its sensational representations of the calamities of its
heroes, is "by the vehicle of fear and pity to purge our minds of those
and similar emotions. " The explanation of the theory is to be sought in
the literal sense of the medical term "purgative. " According to the
medical view which we have already found influencing his ethical
doctrine, health consists in the maintenance of an equality between the
various ingredients of the body. Every now and again it happens that
there arise superfluous accretions of some one ingredient, which are not
carried away in the normal routine of bodily life. These give rise to
serious derangement of function and may permanently injure the working
of the organism, unless they are removed in time by a medicine which
acts as a purge, and clears the body of a superfluous accumulation. The
same thing also happens in the life of the soul. So long as we are in
good spiritual health our various feelings and emotional moods will be
readily discharged in action, in the course of our daily life. But there
is always the possibility of an excessive accumulation of emotional
"moods" for which the routine of daily life does not provide an adequate
discharge in action. Unless this tendency is checked we may contract
dangerously morbid habits of soul. Thus we need some medicine for the
soul against this danger, which may be to it what a purgative is to the
body.

Now it was a well-known fact, observed in connection with some of the
more extravagant religious cults, that persons suffering from an excess
of religious frenzy might be cured homoeopathically, so to say, by
artificially arousing the very emotion in question by the use of
exciting music. Aristotle extends the principle by suggesting that in
the artificial excitement aroused by violently stimulating music or in
the transports of sympathetic apprehension and pity with which we follow
the disasters of the stage-hero, we have a safe and ready means of
ridding ourselves of morbid emotional strain which might otherwise have
worked havoc with the efficient conduct of real life.

The great value of this defence of the occasional employment of
sensation as a medicine for the soul is obvious. Unhappily it would
seem to have so dominated Aristotle's thought on the functions of
dramatic art as to blind him to what we are accustomed to think the
nobler functions of tragedy. No book has had a more curious fate than
the little manual for intending composers of tragedies which is all that
remains to us of Aristotle's lectures on Poetry. This is not the place
to tell the story of the way in which the great classical French
playwrights, who hopelessly misunderstood the meaning of Aristotle's
chief special directions, but quite correctly divined that his lectures
were meant to be an actual _Vade Mecum_ for the dramatist, deliberately
constructed their masterpieces in absolute submission to regulations for
which they had no better reasons than that they had once been given
magisterially by an ancient Greek philosopher. But it may be worth
while to remark that the worth of Aristotle's account of tragedy as
art-criticism has probably been vastly overrated. From first to last
the standpoint he assumes, in his verdicts on the great tragic poets, is
that of the gallery. What he insists on all through, probably because
he has the purgative effect of the play always in his mind, is a
well-woven plot with plenty of melodramatic surprise in the incidents
and a thoroughly sensational culmination in a sense of unrelieved
catastrophe over which the spectator can have a good cry, and so get
well "purged" of his superfluous emotion. It is clear from his repeated
allusions that the play he admired above all others was the _King
Oedipus_ of Sophocles, but it is equally clear that he admired it not
for the profound insight into human life and destiny or the deep sense
of the mystery of things which some modern critics have found in it, but
because its plot is the best and most startling detective story ever
devised, and its finale a triumph of melodramatic horror.




*BIBLIOGRAPHY*


The English reader who wishes for further information about Aristotle
and his philosophy may be referred to any or all of the following
works:--

E. Zeller. --_Aristotle and the Earlier Peripatetics_. English
translation in 2 vols. by B. F. C. Costelloe and J. H. Muirhead. London.
Longmans & Co.

*E. Wallace. --_Outlines of the Philosophy of Aristotle_. Cambridge
University Press.

G. Grote. --_Aristotle_. London. John Murray.

*W. D. Ross. --_The Works of Aristotle translated into English_, vol.